Turning a rear corner of the barn, he came unexpectedly upon a jarring picture. Martin Thorn was busy beside a basket, digging a deep hole in the sand. In his dark clothes, with his pale face glistening from his unaccustomed exertion, he looked not unlike some prosperous sexton.
“Hello,” said Eden. “Who are you burying this fine morning?”
Thorn stopped. Beads of perspiration gleamed on his high white forehead.
“Somebody has to do it,” he complained. “That new boy’s too lazy. And if you let this refuse accumulate the place begins to look like a deserted picnic grounds.”
He nodded toward the basket, filled with old tin cans.
“Wanted, private secretary to bury rubbish back of barn,” smiled Eden. “A new sidelight on your profession, Thorn. Good idea to get them out of the way, at that,” he added, leaning over and taking up a can. “Especially this one, which I perceive lately held arsenic.”
“Arsenic?” repeated Thorn. He passed a dark coat sleeve across his brow. “Oh, yes—we use a lot of that. Rats, you know.”
“Rats,” remarked Eden, with an odd inflection, restoring the can to its place.
Thorn emptied the contents of the basket into the hole, and began to fill it in. Eden, playing well his role of innocent bystander, watched him idly.
“There—that’s better,” said the secretary, smoothing the sand over the recent excavation. “You know—I’ve always had a passion for neatness.” He picked up the basket. “By the way,” he added, “if you don’t mind, I’d like to give you a little advice.”
“Glad to have it,” Eden replied, walking along beside him.
“I don’t know how anxious you people are to sell that necklace. But I’ve been with the chief fifteen years, and I can tell you he’s not the sort of man you can keep waiting with impunity. The first thing you know, young man, that deal for the pearls will be off.”
“I’m doing my best,” Eden told him. “Besides, Madden’s getting a big bargain, and he must know it—if he stops to think—”
“Once P. J. Madden loses his temper,” said Thorn, “he doesn’t stop to think. I’m warning you, that’s all.”
“Mighty kind of you,” answered Eden carelessly. Thorn dropped his spade and basket by the cookhouse, from which came the pleasant odour of bacon frying. Walking slowly, the secretary moved on toward the patio. Ah Kim emerged from his workroom, his cheeks flushed from close juxtaposition to a cooking-stove.
“Hello, boss,” he said. “You takee look-see at sunlise thisee mawnin’?”
“Up pretty early, but not as early as that,” the boy replied. He saw the secretary vanish into the house. “Just been watching our dear friend Thorn bury some rubbish back of the barn,” he added. “Among other items, a can that lately contained arsenic.”
Chan dropped the role of Ah Kim. “Mr. Thorn plenty busy man,” he said. “Maybe he get more busy as time goes by. One wrong deed leads on to other wrong deeds, like unending chain. Chinese have saying that applies: ‘He who rides on tiger cannot dismount.’ ”
Madden appeared in the patio, full of pep and power. “Hey, Eden,” he called. “Your father’s on the wire.”
“Dad’s up early,” remarked Eden, hurrying to join him.
“I called him,” said Madden. “I’ve had enough delay.”
Reaching the telephone, Bob Eden took up the receiver. “Hello, Dad. I can talk freely this morning. I want to tell you everything’s all right down here. Mr. Madden? Yes—he’s fine—standing right beside me now. And he’s in a tearing hurry for that necklace.”
“Very well—we’ll get it to him at once,” the elder Eden said. Bob Eden sighed with relief. His telegram had arrived.
“Ask him to get it off today,” Madden commanded.
“Mr. Madden wants to know if it can start today,” the boy said.
“Impossible,” replied the jeweller. “I haven’t got it.”
“Not today,” Bob Eden said to Madden. “He hasn’t got—”
“I heard him,” roared Madden. “Here—give me that phone. Look here, Eden—what do you mean, you haven’t got it?”
Bob Eden could hear his father’s replies. “Ah—Mr. Madden—how are you? The pearls were in a quite disreputable condition—I couldn’t possibly let them go as they were. So I’m having them cleaned—they’re with another firm—”
“Just a minute, Eden,” bellowed the millionaire. “I want to ask you something—can you understand the English language, or can’t you? Keep still—I’ll talk. I told you I wanted the pearls now—at once—pronto—what the devil language do you speak? I don’t give a hang about having them cleaned. Good Lord, I thought you understood.”
“So sorry,” responded Bob Eden’s gentle father. “I’ll get them in the morning, and they’ll start tomorrow night.”
“Yeah—that means Tuesday evening at the ranch. Eden, you make me sick. I’ve a good mind to call the whole thing off—” Madden paused, and Bob Eden held his breath. “However, if you promise the pearls will start tomorrow sure—”
“I give you my word,” said the jeweller. “They will start tomorrow, at the very latest.”
“All right. I’ll have to wait, I suppose. But this is the last time I deal with you, my friend. I’ll be on the lookout for your man on Tuesday. Goodbye.”
In a towering rage, Madden hung up. His ill-humour continued through breakfast, and Eden’s gay attempts at conversation fell on barren ground. After the meal was finished Thorn took the little car and disappeared down the road. Bob Eden loafed expectantly about the front yard.
Much sooner than he had dared to hope his vigil was ended. Paula Wendell, fresh and lovely as the California morning, drove up in her smart roadster and waited outside the barbed-wire
