Farriss looked at him sourly. "You might get a raise in salary," he snapped sharply, "if you'd keep your mind on the job. What you can do is call up, say you're the detective bureau, and ask carelessly about Beaton. That'll throw a scare into her. You've got her number?"
"Riverside 7683," Willis said in a businesslike voice. "The Beecher apartments. I'll try it."
He disappeared into the clattering local room, to return a moment later, white of face, bright of eye, and with lips parted.
"What's the dope?" Farriss shot at him.
"Nothing!" cried the excited young man. "Nothing except that fifteen minutes ago Celeste La Rue kissed the Beecher apartments good-bye and, with trunk, puff, and toothbrush, beat it."
"To Haskell," added the city editor, "or my hair is pink. And by God,
I believe there's a story there. What's more, I believe we can get it.
It's blind chance, but we'll take it."
"Let Mr. Willis——" began Miss Donovan.
"Mind your own business, Stella," commanded Farriss, "and see that your hat's on straight. Because within half an hour you're going to draw on the night cashier for five hundred dollars and pack your little portmanteau for Haskell."
Willis's face fell. "Can't I go, too?" he began, but Farriss silenced him on the instant.
"Kid," he said sharply but kindly, "you're too good a hound for the desert. The city needs you here—and, dammit, you keep on sniffing."