P. S. I came to say good-by a little while ago and was sorry you wasn't feeling well. This note Mr. Hennage sealed carefully in an envelope, together with a compact little roll of bills, just as the train whistled for San Pasqual. He seized his suit-case and hurried down stairs, and on the way down he met Sam Singer coming up. “Give this to Miss Donna” said Mr. Hennage, and thrust the envelope into the Indian's hand. “Ain't got no time to talk to you, Sam. This is my busy day,” and then, for the last time, he gave Sam Singer the inevitable half dollar and a cigar. “Good-by, Sam” he called as he descended the stairs. “Be a good Injun till I see you again.” He went to the ticket window, purchased a ticket to San Francisco and climbed aboard the train. Two minutes later it pulled out. As it plunged into Tehachapi Pass, Mr. Hennage, standing on the platform of the rear car, glanced back across the desert at San Pasqual. “Nothin' like mystery to keep that rotten little camp up on its toes” he muttered. “I'll just leave that mess to stew in its own juices for a while.” He went into the smoker and lit a cigar. His plans were well matured now and he was content; in this comfortable frame of mind he glanced idly around at his fellow-passengers. Seated two seats in front of him and on the opposite side of the coach, Mr. Hennage observed a gray-haired man reading a newspaper. The gambler decided that there was something vaguely familiar about the back of this passenger's head, and on the pretense of going to the front of the car for a drink of water he contrived, on his way back to his seat, to catch a glimpse of the stranger's face. At the same instant the man glanced up from his paper and nodded to Mr. Hennage. “How” said Harley P., and paused beside the other's seat. “Mr. T. Morgan Carey, if I ain't mistaken?” “The same” replied Carey in his dry, precise tones. “And you are--Mr.--Mr.--Mr. Hammage.” “Hennage” corrected the gambler. “I beg your pardon. Mr. Hennage. Quite so. Pray be seated, Mr. Hennage. You're the very man I wanted to see.” He moved over and made room for Mr. Hennage beside him. The gambler sat down and sighed. “Hot, ain't it?” he remarked, rather inanely. “Rather. By the way, Mr. Hennage, have you, by any chance, seen that young man for whom I was inquiring on the day I first had the pleasure of making your acquaintance? His name is McGraw--Robert McGraw. You will recollect that I left with you one of my cards, with the request that you give it to McGraw, should you meet him, and inform him that I desired to communicate with him.” “Yes” replied Mr. Hennage calmly. “I met him one day in San Pasqual an' gave him your card.” “You gave him my registered letter, also?” So Carey had been talking with Miss Pickett again! Mr. Hennage nodded. “Tell me, Mr. Hennage” purred Carey. “Why did the man, McGraw, send you to the post-office with an order for that registered letter?”