“You don’t need to call, Mr. Stranleigh. When it comes, I’ll lock up the office, and find you if you’re anywhere in town.”
“I’m stopping over at the tavern.”
“All right; you’ll get it.”
“Thanks. Good morning.”
“See you later,” said the now thoroughly-awakened operator, and Stranleigh proceeded to the railway station. He took the next train to the nearest town east, and there did some more telegraphing, but this time the message was in cypher, and it was addressed to his agent in New York. Translated, it read—
“Send me at once by express, registered and insured, twenty thousand dollars in currency, made up of five dollar, ten dollar, and hundred dollar bills.”
The address was fully written out in plain English. He found there was time for a satisfactory lunch before the west-bound train arrived, and he partook of it in the chief hotel, whose accommodation was much superior to that of the Bleachers tavern.
On his return to headquarters, he called in at the telegraph office. The young man in charge, at once recognising him, announced—