“I want you to call up Sacramento on the long distance an' ask the central there to find out who Mr. R. P. McKeon is an' what he does for a livin'.”
“We have copies of the telephone directories of the principal cities in the state” came the quick reply. “It makes it easier if we ask for the number direct.”
“Five bucks for a look in the book” announced Mr. Hennage. He got the book, with the information that he might have his look for nothing, but being a generous soul he declined. He ascertained that R. P. McKeon was an attorney-at-law.
“As the feller says, I believe I see the light” murmured the gambler. “Now please get me the agent for Wells Fargo & Company at San Pasqual.”
When the operator informed him that San Pasqual was on the line, Mr. Hennage went into a sound-proof booth and told a lie. He informed the agent at San Pasqual that he was the Bakersfield representative of the Associated Press, and demanded the latest information regarding the hunt for the Garlock bandit. He was informed that there was no news.
“I gotta get some news” he bellowed into the receiver. “What's the exact loss o' your company?”
“Twenty-one hundred eighty-three forty.”
“Serves you right. How about the passengers? Got their names an' addresses an' the amounts they lost?”
“No, but the express messenger has and he's in town. Hold the line a minute and I'll go call him.”
So Mr. Hennage waited. Five minutes later, when he hung up, he had secured the information and made careful note of it, after which he sought an arm-chair in the hotel window, planted his feet on the window sill and gave himself up to reflection. He was occupied thus when T. Morgan Carey came out of the barber shop, and seeing Mr. Hennage, came over and sat down beside him. Mr. Hennage decided that the financier must have something on his mind, and he was not wrong.