Carey registered first, sent his bag and overcoat up to his room, and then walked over to the telegraph desk. Harley P. Hennage, standing in line to register, noticed that Carey had filed a telegram; consequently, when he had registered and T. Morgan Carey had disappeared into the barber shop, Mr. Hennage, following up a strong winning “hunch,” walked over to the telegraph desk and laid a ten-dollar piece on the railing. “I'm goin' to open a book, young lady” he announced. “I'm willin' to bet ten dollars that the respectable old party that just give you a telegram signed Carey is wirin' about a friend o' mine. If I don't guess right, you get the ten bucks. Fair?” The young lady operator dimpled and admitted that it was eminently fair. She had no illusions (although her position required her to have them) regarding the sacredness of privacy in a telegram, and Mr. Hennage had not as yet asked her to violate a confidence. “I'm a-bettin' ten bucks” repeated Mr. Hennage, “that the name McGraw occurs in that telegram.” “You win” the operator replied. “How did you guess it?” “I was born with a veil” he replied. “I got the gift o' second sight, an' I'm just a-tryin' it out. The ten is yours for a copy o' that telegram.” The operator seized a scratch-pad, copied the telegram and cautiously “slipped” it to Mr. Hennage, who as cautiously “slipped” her the ten-dollar bill. He was rewarded for his prodigality by the following: R. P. McKeon, Mills Building, Sacramento, Calif. Advise our friend approve McGraw applications at once. Letter follows. CAREY. The gambler smiled his thanks and walked across the hotel lobby to the public-telephone operator. On this young lady's desk he laid a five-dollar bill. “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.”