her know I'm not a hobo! And now to the task of framing up a scheme for future acquaintance. I must learn her name and destination; so as a preliminary I'll interview the train conductor.”
He did, and under the ameliorating influence of a five-dollar bill the conductor bent a respectful ear to the Websterian message.
“In Car Seven,” he began, “there is a young lady. I do not know what section she occupies; neither do I know her name and destination. I only know what she looks like.”
The conductor nodded. “And you want to ascertain her name and destination?”
“I do.”
“Easiest thing in life. There is only one young lady in Car Seven. I suppose you mean that queen with the olive complexion, the green suit, and——”
“Hold! Enough.”
“All right. I have the unused portion of her transportation to return to her before we hit Salt Lake; her name is on the ticket, and the ticket indicates her destination. I'll make a mental note of both as soon as I've identified her ticket.”
“After you've made the said mental note,” Webster pleaded, “be sure you write it down, so you'll not forget.”
A few hours later the conductor came to Webster's stateroom and handed him a card upon which was written:
Dolores Ruey. From Los Angeles, via San Pedro, Los Angeles & Salt Lake, to Salt Lake City, Denver & Rio Grande to Denver, Burlington to St. Louis, Illinois Central to New Orleans. Stop-over at Denver.
John Stuart Webster studied the name after the conductor withdrew. “That's a Spanish name,” he soliloquized, “but for all that, she's not a parakeet. There's something Gaelic about her features, particularly her eyes. They're brown, with golden flecks in them, and if she had a drop of dark blood in her, they'd be smoky and languid. Also if she were a Latin she would have referred to my black eye—whereas she referred to, a red eye with blue trimmings! Same thing but different! All things considered, I guess I'll take a chance and investigate.”
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