"Did you get her full name?"
"Sure; it's on the register—Stella Donovan."
Enright lowered his feet to the floor, a puzzled look un his face, his teeth clinched on his cigar.
"Hold on a bit till I think." he muttered. "That sounds mighty familiar—Stella Donovan! My God, I've heard that name before somewhere; ah, I have it—she's on the New York Star. I've seen her name signed to articles in the Sunday edition." He wheeled and faced Miss La Rue. "Do you remember them?"
"No; I never see the Star."
"Well, I do, and sometimes she's damn clever. I'll bet she's the girl."
"A New York newspaperwoman; well, what do you suppose she is doing out here? After us?"
Enright had a grip on himself again and slowly relit his cigar, leaning back, and staring out the window. His mind gripped the situation coldly.
"Well, we'd best be careful," he said slowly. "Probably it's merely a coincidence, but I don't like her lying to Beaton. That don't look just right. Yet the Star can't have anything on us: the case is closed in New York; forgotten and buried nearly a month ago. Even my partner don't know where I am."
"I had to show John the telegram in order to get some money."