Her newspaper experience had given her some knowledge of human nature and she felt convinced that her task of extracting information would be greatly simplified if these people sought her company first.  To hold aloof would have a tendency to increase their interest, for Beaton would certainly tell of her presence in the hotel, and, if their purpose there had any criminal intent, suspicion would be aroused.

This theory, however, became somewhat strained as the time passed quietly, and seemed to break entirely when from her window she saw Beaton and the heavy-set man ride out of town on a pair of livery horses.  She watched them move down the long street, and turn into the trail leading out across the purple hills.  The lowering darkness finally hid them from view.  She was still at the window beginning to regret her choice when some one rapped at the door.  She arose to her feet, and took a step or two forward, her heart beating swifter.

“Come in.”

The door opened, and the light from the windows revealed Miss La Rue, rather tastefully attired in green silk, her blond hair fluffed artfully, and a dainty patch of black court-plaster adorning one cheek.  She stood hesitating on the threshold, her eyes searching the other’s face.

“Pardon me, please,” the voice somewhat high-pitched, “but they told me down-stairs you were from New York.”

“Yes, that is my home; won’t you come in?”

“Sure I will.  Why I was so lonesome in this hole I simply couldn’t stand it any longer.  Have you only one chair?” She glanced about, her eyes widening.  “Heavens, what a funny room!  Why, I thought mine was the limit, but it’s a palace beside this.  You been here long?”

“Since yesterday; take the chair, please; I am used to the bed—­no, really, I don’t mind in the least.  It is rather funny, but then I haven’t always lived at the Ritz-Carlton, so I don’t mind.”

“Huh! for the matter of that no more have I, but believe me, there would be some howl if they ever gave me a room like this—­even in Haskell.  I know your name; it’s Stella Donovan—­well, mine is Celeste La Rue.”

“A very pretty name; rather unusual.  Are you French?”

The other laughed, crossing her feet carelessly, and extracting a cigarette case from a hand-bag.

“French?  Well, I guess not.  You don’t mind if I smoke, do you?  Thanks.  Have one yourself—­they’re imported.  No?  All right.  I suppose it is a beastly habit, but most of the girls I know have picked it up.  Seems sociable, somehow.  No, I’m not French.  My dad’s name was Capley, and I annexed this other when I went on the stage.  It tickles the Johnnies, and sounds better than Sadie Capley.  You liked it yourself.”

“It is better adapted to that purpose—­you are an actress then?”

“Well, nobody ever said so.  I can dance and sing a bit, and know how to wear clothes.  It’s an easier job than some others I’ve had, and gets me into a swell set.  Tell me, when were you in New York?”