LITMIR.BIZ

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was unlikely. And it wouldn't do to show alarm and change his plans now.

      "Surely," he remarked carelessly. "If he isn't satisfied without a word from me, tell him to call again about six."

      When he stepped into the yard, the girl was skillfully turning her car about. He officiated at the gate, and joined her in the sandy road.

      The car moved off and Eden got his first unimpeded look at this queer world Holley had called the devil's garden. "Plenty acres of unlimitable sand," Chan had said, and that about summed it up. Far in the distance was a touch of beauty—a cobalt sky above snow-capped mountains. But elsewhere he saw only desert, a great gray interminable blanket spattered with creosote brush. All the trees, all the bushes, were barbed and cruel and menacing—a biznaga, pointing like a finger of scorn toward the sky, an unkempt palo verde, the eternal Joshua trees, like charred stumps that had stood in the path of a fire. Over this vast waste played odd tricks of light and shade, and up above hung the sun, a living flame, merciless, ineffably pure, and somehow terrible.

      "Well, what do you think of it?" asked the girl.

      Eden shrugged. "Hell's burnt out and left the embers," he remarked.

      She smiled. "The desert is an acquired taste," she explained. "No one likes it at first. I remember the night, long ago, when I got off the train at Eldorado with poor dad. A little girl from a Philadelphia suburb—a place that was old and settled and civilized. And there I stood in the midst of this savage-looking world. My heart broke."

      "Poor kid," said Eden. "But you like it now?"

      "Yes—after a while—well, there's a sort of weird beauty in this sun-drenched country. You waken to it in the course of time. And in the spring, after the rains—I'd like to take you over round Palm Springs then. The verbena is like a carpet of old rose, and the ugliest trees put forth the most delicate and lovely blossoms. And at any time of the year there's always the desert nights, with the pale stars overhead, and the air full of peace and calm and rest."

      "Oh, no doubt it's a great place to rest," Eden agreed. "But as it happens, I wasn't very tired."

      "Who knows?" she said. "Perhaps before we say goodbye I can initiate you into the Very Ancient Order of Lovers of the Desert. The requirements for membership are very strict. A sensitive soul, a quick eye for beauty—oh, a very select group, you may be sure. No riff-raff on our rolls."

      A blatant sign hung before them. "Stop! Have you bought your lot in Date City?" From the steps of a tiny real estate office a rather shabby young man leaped to life. He came into the road and held up his hand. Obligingly the girl stopped her car.

      "Howdy, folks," said the young man. "Here's the big opportunity of your life—don't pass it by. Let me show you a lot in Date City, the future metropolis of the desert."

      Bob Eden stared at the dreary landscape. "Not interested," he said.

      "Yeah. Think of the poor devils who once said that about the corner of Spring and Sixth, Los Angeles. Not interested—and they could have bought it for a song. Look ahead. Can you picture this street ten years hence?"

      "I think I can," Eden replied. "It looks just the way it does today."

      "Blind!" rebuked the young man. "Blind! This won't be the desert forever. Look!" He pointed to a small lead pipe surrounded by a circle of rocks and trying to act like a fountain. From its top gurgled an anemic stream. "What's that! Water, my boy, water, the pure, life-giving elixir, gushing madly from the sandy soil. What does that mean? I see a great city rising on this spot, skyscrapers and movie palaces, land five thousand a front foot—land you can buy today for a paltry two dollars."

      "I'll take a dollar's worth," remarked Eden.

      "I appeal to the young lady," continued the real-estate man. "If that ring on the third finger of her left hand means anything, it means a wedding." Startled, Bob Eden looked, and saw a big emerald set in platinum. "You, miss—you have vision. Suppose you two bought a lot today and held it for your—er—for future generations. Wealth, wealth untold—I'm right, ain't I, miss?"

      The girl looked away. "Perhaps you are," she admitted. "But you've made a mistake. This gentleman is not my fiance."

      "Oh," said the youth, deflating.

      "I'm only a stranger, passing through," Eden told him.

      The salesman pulled himself together for a new attack. "That's it—you're a stranger. You don't understand. You can't realize that Los Angeles looked like this once."

      "It still does—to some people," suggested Bob Eden gently.

      The young man gave him a hard look. "Oh—I get you," he said. "You're from San Francisco." He turned to the girl. "So this ain't your fiance, eh, lady? Well—hearty congratulations."

      Eden laughed. "Sorry," he said.

      "I'm sorry, too," returned the salesman. "Sorry for you, when I think of what you're passing up. However, you may see the light yet, and if you ever do, don't forget me. I'm here Saturdays and Sundays, and we have an office in Eldorado. Opportunity's knocking, but of course if you're from Frisco, you're doing the same. Glad to have met you, anyhow."

      They left him by his weak little fountain, a sad but hopeful figure.

      "Poor fellow," the girl remarked, as she stepped on the gas. "The pioneer has a hard time of it."

      Eden did not speak for a moment. "I'm an observing little chap, aren't I?" he said at last.

      "What do you mean?"

      "That ring. I never noticed it. Engaged, I suppose?"

      "It looks that way, doesn't it?"

      "Don't tell me you're going to marry some movie actor who carries a vanity case."

      "You should know me better than that."

      "I do, of course. But describe this lucky lad. What's he like?"

      "He likes me."

      "Naturally." Eden lapsed into silence.

      "Not angry, are you?" asked the girl.

      "Not angry," he grinned, "but terribly, terribly hurt. I perceive you don't want to talk about the matter."

      "Well—some incidents in my life I really should keep to myself. On such short acquaintance."

      "As you wish," agreed Eden. The car sped on. "Lady," he said presently, "I've known this desert country, man and boy, going on twenty-four hours. And believe me when I tell you, miss, it's a cruel land—a cruel land."

      They climbed the road that lay between the two piles of brown rock pretending to be mountains, and before them lay Eldorado, huddled about the little red station. The town looked tiny and helpless and forlorn. As they alighted before the Desert Edge Hotel, Eden said:

      "When shall I see you again?"

      "Thursday, perhaps."

      "Nonsense. I shall probably be gone by then; I must see you soon."

      "I'll be out your way in the morning. If you like, I'll pick you up."

      "That's kind of you—but morning's a long way off," he said. "I'll think of you tonight, eating at the Oasis. Give my love to that steak, if you see it. Until tomorrow, then—and can't I buy you an alarm clock?"

      "I shan't oversleep—much," she laughed. "Good-bye."

      "Good-bye," answered Eden. "Thanks for the buggy ride."

      He crossed the street to the railroad station, which was also the telegraph office. In the little cubby-hole occupied by the agent, Will Holley stood, a sheaf of copy paper in his hand.

      "Hello," he said. "Just getting that interview on the wire. Were you looking for me?"

      "Yes, I was," Eden replied. "But first I want to send a wire of my own."

      The agent, a husky youth with sandy hair, looked up. "Say, Mister, no can do. Mr. Holley here's tied up things forever."

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