LITMIR.BIZ

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"Silent as a lawyer from Northampton, Massachusetts," he remarked.

      Madden laughed. "By the way," he said, as Thorn went out. "Your father didn't call."

      "No? Well, he isn't likely to get home until evening. I'll try the house tonight, if you want me to."

      "I wish you would," Madden said. "I don't want to seem inhospitable, my boy, but I'm very anxious to get away from here. Certain matters in the mail today—you understand—"

      "Of course," Bob Eden answered. "I'll do all I can to help."

      "That's mighty good of you," Madden told him, and the boy felt a bit guilty. "I think I'll take a nap before dinner. I find, nowadays, it's a great aid to digestion." The famous millionaire was more human than Bob Eden had yet seen him. He stood looking down at the boy, wistfully. "A matter you can't grasp, just yet," he added. "You're so damned young—I envy you."

      He went out, leaving Bob Eden to a Los Angeles paper he had picked up in Eldorado. From time to time, as the boy read, the quaint little figure of Ah Kim passed noiselessly. He was setting the table for dinner.

      An hour later, there on the lonely desert, they again sat down to Ah Kim's cooking. Very different from the restaurant of which Bob Eden thought with longing, but if the company was far from lively, the food was excellent, for the Chinese had negotiated well. When the servant came in with coffee, Madden said:

      "Light the fire in the patio, Ah Kim. We'll sit out there a while."

      The Chinese went to comply with this order, and Eden saw Madden regarding him expectantly. He smiled and rose.

      "Well, dad ought to be struggling in from his hard day on the links any minute now," he said. "I'll put in that call."

      Madden leaped up. "Let me do it," he suggested. "Just tell me the number."

      The boy told him, and Madden spoke over the telephone in a voice to command respect.

      "By the way," he said, when he had finished, "last night you intimated that certain things happened in San Francisco—things that made your father cautious. What—if you don't mind telling me?"

      Bob Eden thought rapidly. "Oh, it may all have been a detective's pipe dream. I'm inclined to think now that it was. You see—"

      "Detective? What detective?"

      "Well, naturally dad has a tie-up with various private detective agencies. An operative of one of them reported that a famous crook had arrived in town and was showing an undue interest in our store. Of course, it may have meant nothing—"

      "A famous crook, eh? Who?"

      Never a good liar, Bob Eden hesitated. "I—I don't know that I remember the name. English, I believe—the Liverpool Kid, or something like that," he invented lamely.

      Madden shrugged. "Well, if anything's leaked out about those pearls, it came from your side of the deal," he said. "My daughter, Thorn and I have certainly been discretion itself. However, I'm inclined to think it's all a pipe dream, as you say."

      "Probably is," agreed Eden.

      "Come outside," the millionaire invited. He led the way through the glass doors to the patio. There a huge fire roared in the outdoor fireplace, glowing red on the stone floor and on wicker chairs. "Sit down," suggested Madden. "A cigar—no, you prefer your cigarette, eh?" He lighted up, and leaning back in his chair, stared at the dark roof above—the far-off roof of the sky. "I like it out here best," he went on. "A bit chilly, maybe, but you get close to the desert. Ever notice how white the stars are in this country?"

      Eden looked at him with surprise. "Sure—I've noticed," he said. "But I never dreamed you had, old boy," he added to himself.

      Inside, Thorn was busy at the radio. A horrible medley of bedtime stories, violin solos, and lectures on health and beauty drifted out to them. And then the shrill voice of a woman, urging sinners to repent.

      "Get Denver," Madden called loudly.

      "I'm trying, Chief," answered Thorn.

      "If I must listen to the confounded thing," Madden added to the boy, "I want what I hear to come from far away. Over the mountains and the plains—there's romance in that." The radio swept suddenly into a brisk band tune. "That's it," nodded Madden. "The orchestra at the Brown Palace in Denver—perhaps my girl is dancing to that very music at this moment. Poor kid—she'll wonder what's become of me. I promised to be there two days ago. Thorn!"

      The secretary appeared at the door. "Yes, Chief?"

      "Remind me to send Evelyn a wire in the morning."

      "I'll do that, Chief," said Thorn, and vanished.

      "And the band played on," remarked Madden. "All the way from Denver, mile high amid the Rockies. I tell you, man's getting too clever. He's riding for a fall. Probably a sign of age, Mr. Eden, but I find myself longing for the older, simpler days. When I was a boy on the farm, winter mornings, the little schoolhouse in the valley. That sled I wanted—hard times, yes, but times that made men. Oh well, I mustn't get started on that."

      They listened on in silence, but presently a bedtime story brought a bellow of rage from the millionaire and Thorn, getting his cue, shut off the machine.

      Madden stirred restlessly in his chair. "We haven't enough for bridge," he remarked. "How about a little poker to pass the time, my boy?"

      "Why—that would be fine," Eden replied. "I'm afraid you're pretty speedy company for me, however."

      "Oh, that's all right—we'll put a limit on it."

      Madden was on his feet, eager for action. "Come along."

      They went into the living-room and closed the doors. A few moments later the three of them sat about a big round table under a brilliant light.

      "Jacks or better," Madden said. "Quarter limit, eh?"

      "Well—" replied Eden, dubiously.

      He had good reason to be dubious, for he was instantly plunged into the poker game of his life. He had played at college, and was even able to take care of himself in newspaper circles in San Francisco, but all that was child's play by comparison. Madden was no longer the man who noticed how white the stars were. He noticed how red, white and blue the chips were, and he caressed them with loving hands. He was Madden, the plunger, the gambler with railroads and steel mills and the fortunes of little nations abroad, the Madden who, after he had played all day in Wall Street, was wont to seek the roulette wheels on Forty-fourth Street at night.

      "Aces," he cried. "Three of them. What have you got, Eden?"

      "Apoplexy," remarked Eden, tossing aside his hand. "Right here and now I offer to sell my chances in this game for a canceled postage stamp, or what have you?"

      "Good experience for you," Madden replied. "Martin—it's your deal."

      A knock sounded suddenly on the door, loud and clear. Bob Eden felt a strange sinking of the heart. Out of the desert dark, out of the vast uninhabited wastes of the world, some one spoke and demanded to come in.

      "Who can that be?" Madden frowned.

      "Police," suggested Eden, hopefully. "The joint is pinched." No such luck, he reflected.

      Thorn was dealing, and Madden himself went to the door and swung it open. From where he sat Eden had a clear view of the dark desert—and of the man who stood in the light. A thin man in an overcoat, a man he had seen first in a San Francisco pier-shed, and later in front of the Desert Edge Hotel. Shaky Phil Maydorf himself, but now without the dark glasses hiding his eyes.

      "Good evening," said Maydorf, and his voice, too, was thin and cold. "This is Mr. Madden's ranch, I believe?"

      "I'm Madden. What can I do for you?"

      "I'm looking for an old friend of mine—your secretary, Martin Thorn."

      Thorn rose and came round the table. "Oh, hello," he said, with slight enthusiasm.

      "You

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