“There’s nothing in the jail,” said Maydorf. “I haven’t got the key—”
“Go through him, Holley,” suggested the boy.
A quick search produced a bunch of keys, and Eden, taking them, handed Holley the gun. “I give old Shaky Phil into your keeping. If he tries to run shoot him down like a rabbit.”
He took the flashlight from the car, and, going over, unlocked the outer door of the jail. Stepping inside, he found himself in what had once been a sort of office. The moonlight pouring in from the street, fell upon a dusty desk and chair, an old safe, and a shelf with a few tattered books. On the desk lay a newspaper. He flashed his light on the date—only a week old.
At the rear were two heavy doors, both with new locks. Searching among his keys, he unlocked the one at the left. In a small, cell-like room with high, barred windows his flashlight revealed the tall figure of a girl. With no great surprise he recognized Evelyn Madden. She came toward him swiftly. “Bob Eden!” she cried, and then, her old haughtiness gone, she burst into tears.
“There—there,” said Eden. “You’re all right now.” Another girl appeared suddenly in the doorway—Paula Wendell, bright and smiling.
“Hello,” she remarked calmly. “I rather thought you’d come along.”
“Thanks for the ad,” replied Eden. “Say, you might get hurt running about like this. What happened, anyhow?”
“Nothing much. I came up to look round, and he”—she nodded to Shaky Phil in the moonlit street—“told me I couldn’t. I argued it with him, and ended up in here. He said I’d have to stay overnight. He was polite, but firm.”
“Lucky for him he was polite,” remarked Eden grimly. He took the arm of Evelyn Madden. “Come along,” he said gently. “I guess we’re through here—”
He stopped. Someone was hammering on the inside of the second door. Amazed, the boy looked toward Paula Wendell.
She nodded. “Unlock it,” she told him.
He unfastened the door and, swinging it open, peered inside. In the semidarkness he saw the dim figure of a man.
Eden gasped, and fell back against the desk for support.
“Ghost city!” he cried. “Well, that’s what it is all right.”
XXI
End of the Postman’s Journey
If Bob Eden had known the identity of the passenger in the taxi that he and Holley passed on their way to the mine, it is possible that, despite his concern for Paula Wendell, he would have turned back to Madden’s ranch. But he drove on unknowing; nor did the passenger, though he stared with interest at the passing car, recognize Eden. The car from the Eldorado station went on its appointed way, and finally drew up before the ranch-house.
The driver alighted and was fumbling with the gate, when his fare leaped to the ground.
“Never mind that,” he said. “I’ll leave you here. How much do I owe you?” He was a plump little man, about thirty-five years old, attired in the height of fashion and with a pompous manner. The driver named a sum, and, paying him off, the passenger entered the yard. Walking importantly up to the front door of the house, he knocked loudly.
Madden, talking with Thorn and Gamble by the fire, looked up in annoyance. “Now who the devil—” he began. Thorn went over and opened the door. The plump little man at once pushed his way inside.
“I’m looking for Mr. P. J. Madden,” he announced.
The millionaire rose. “All right—I’m Madden. What do you want?”
The stranger shook hands. “Glad to meet you, Mr. Madden. My name is Victor Jordan, and I’m one of the owners of those pearls you bought in San Francisco.”
A delighted smile spread over Madden’s face. “Oh—I’m glad to see you,” he said. “Mr. Eden told me you were coming—”
“How could he?” demanded Victor. “He didn’t know it himself.”
“Well, he didn’t mention you. But he informed me the pearls would be here at eight o’clock—”
Victor stared. “Be here at eight o’clock?” he repeated. “Say, just what has Bob Eden been up to down here, anyhow? The pearls left San Francisco a week ago, when Eden did.”
“What!” Purple again in Madden’s face. “He had them all the time! Why, the young scoundrel! I’ll break him in two for this. I’ll wring his neck—” He stopped. “But he’s gone. I just saw him driving away.”
“Really?” returned Victor. “Well, that may not be so serious as it looks. When I say the pearls left San Francisco with Eden, I don’t mean he was carrying them. Charlie had them.”
“Charlie who?”
“Why, Charlie Chan, of the Honolulu police. The man who brought them from Hawaii.”
Madden was thoughtful. “Chan—a Chinaman?”
“Of course. He’s here too, isn’t he? I understood he was.”
A wicked light came into Madden’s eyes. “Yes, he’s here. You think he still has the pearls?”
“I’m sure he has. In a money-belt about his waist. Get him here and I’ll order him to hand them over at once.”
“Fine—fine!” chuckled Madden. “If you’ll step into this room for a moment, Mr. Jordan, I’ll call you presently.”
“Yes, sir—of course,” agreed Victor, who was always polite to the rich. Madden led him by the inside passage to his bedroom. When the millionaire returned, his spirits were high.
“Bit of luck, this is,” he remarked. “And to think that blooming cook—” He went to the door leading on to the patio, and called loudly, “Ah Kim!”
The Chinese shuffled in. He looked at Madden blankly. “Wha’s matta, boss?” he inquired.
“I want to have a little talk with you.” Madden’s manner was genial, even kindly. “Where did you work before you came here?”
“Get ’um woik all place, boss. Maybe lay sticks on gloun’ foah lailload—”
“What town—what town did
