“I’ve heard about enough,” said Eden, rising.
Madden’s manner changed suddenly. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But this is annoying, you must admit. I wanted that necklace to start today.”
“The day’s young,” Eden reminded him. “It may get off yet.”
“I hope so,” Madden frowned. “I’m not accustomed to this sort of dillydallying, I can tell you that.”
His great head was tossing angrily as he went out. Bob Eden looked after him, thoughtfully. Madden, master of many millions, was putting what seemed an undue emphasis on a little pearl necklace. The boy wondered. His father was getting on in years—he was far from the New York markets. Had he made some glaring mistake in setting a value on that necklace? Was it, perhaps, worth a great deal more than he had asked, and was Madden fuming to get hold of it before the jeweller learned his error and perhaps called off the deal? Of course, Alexander Eden had given his word, but, even so, Madden might fear some hitch in the transaction.
The boy strolled idly out into the patio. The chill night wind had vanished, and he saw the desert of song and story baking under a relentless sun. In the sandy little yard of the ranch-house life was humming along. Plump chickens and haughty turkeys strutted behind wire enclosures. He paused for a moment to stare with interest at a bed of strawberries, red and tempting. Up above, on the bare branches of the cottonwoods, he saw unmistakable buds, mute promise of a grateful shade not far away.
Odd how things lived and grew here in this desolate country. He took a turn about the grounds. In one corner was a great reservoir half filled with water—a pleasant sight that must be on an August afternoon. Coming back to the patio, he stopped to speak to Tony, who was sitting rather dejectedly on his perch.
“Hoo la ma,” he said.
Tony perked up. “Sung kai yat bo,” he remarked.
“Yes, and a great pity, too,” replied Eden facetiously.
“Gee fung low hop,” added Tony, somewhat feebly.
“Perhaps, but I heard different,” said Eden, and moved on. He wondered what Chan was doing. Evidently the detective thought it best to obey Thorn’s command that he keep away from the bird. This was not surprising, for the windows of the secretary’s room looked out on Tony’s perch.
Back in the living-room, Eden took up a book. At a few minutes before twelve he heard the asthmatic cough of Horace Greeley in the yard, and, rising, he admitted Will Holley. The editor was smiling and alert.
“Hello,” Eden said. “Madden’s in there with Thorn, getting out the interview. Sit down.” He came close. “And please remember that I haven’t brought these pearls. My business with Madden is still unfinished.”
Holley looked at him with sudden interest. “I get you. But I thought last night that everything was lovely. Do you mean—”
“Tell you later,” interrupted Eden. “I may be in town this afternoon.” He spoke in a louder tone. “I’m glad you came along. I was finding the desert a bit flat when you flivvered in.”
Holley smiled. “Cheer up. I’ve got something for you. A veritable storehouse of wit and wisdom.” He handed over a paper. “This week’s issue of the Eldorado Times, damp from the presses. Read about Louie Wong’s big trip to San Francisco. All the news to fit the print.”
Eden took the proffered paper—eight small pages of mingled news and advertisements. He sank into a chair. “Well,” he said, “it seems that the Ladies’ Aid Supper last Tuesday night was notably successful. Not only that, but the ladies responsible for the affair laboured assiduously and deserve much credit.”
“Yes, but the real excitement’s inside,” remarked Holley. “On page three. There you’ll learn that coyotes are getting pretty bad in the valley. A number of people are putting out traps.”
“Under those circumstances,” Eden said, “how fortunate that Henry Grattan is caring for Mr. Dickey’s chickens during the latter’s absence in Los Angeles.”
Holley rose, and stared for a moment down at his tiny newspaper. “And once I worked with Mitchell on the New York Sun,” he misquoted sadly. “Don’t let Harry Fladgate see that, will you? When Harry knew me I was a newspaper man.” He moved off across the room. “By the way, has Madden shown you his collection of firearms?”
Bob Eden rose, and followed. “Why no—he hasn’t.”
“It’s rather interesting. But dusty—say, I guess Louie was afraid to touch them. Nearly every one of these guns has a history. See—there’s a typewritten card above each one. ‘Presented to P. J. Madden by Till Taylor’—Taylor was one of the best sheriffs Oregon ever had. And here—look at this one—it’s a beauty. Given to Madden by Bill Tilghman. That gun, my boy, saw action on Front Street in the old Dodge City days.”
“What’s the one with all the notches?” Eden asked.
“Used to belong to Billy the Kid,” said Holley. “Ask them about Billy over in New Mexico. And here’s one Bat Masterson used to tote. But the star of the collection”—Holley’s eyes ran over the wall—“the beauty of the lot—” He turned to Eden. “It isn’t there,” he said.
“There’s a gun missing?” inquired Eden slowly.
“Seems to be. One of the first Colts made—a forty-five—it was presented to Madden by Bill Hart, who’s staged a lot of pictures round here.” He pointed to an open space on the wall. “There’s where it used to be,” he added, and was moving away.
Eden caught his coat sleeve. “Wait a minute,” he said in a low, tense voice. “Let me get this. A gun missing. And the card’s gone, too. You can see where the tacks held it in place.”
“Well, what’s all the excitement—” began Holley, surprised.
Eden ran his finger over the wall. “There’s no dust where that card should be. What does that mean? That Bill Hart’s gun has been removed within the last few days.”
“My boy,” said Holley. “What are you talking
