As soon as he was fully awake the following morning, Bob Eden’s active brain returned to the problem with which it had been concerned when he dropped off to sleep. Madden had killed a man. Cool, confident, and self-possessed though he always seemed, the millionaire had lost his head for once. Ignoring the possible effect of such an act on his fame, his high position, he had with murderous intent pulled the trigger on the gun Bill Hart had given him. His plight must have been desperate indeed.

Whom had he killed? That was something yet to be discovered. Why had he done it? By his own confession, because he was afraid. Madden, whose very name struck terror to many, and into whose presence lesser men came with awe and trembling, had himself known the emotion of fear. Ridiculous, but “You were always afraid of him,” Thorn had said.

Some hidden door in the millionaire’s past must be found and opened. First of all, the identity of the man who had been killed last Wednesday night on this lonely ranch must be ascertained. Well, at least the mystery was beginning to clear, the long sequence of inexplicable, maddening events since they came to the desert was broken for a moment by a tangible bit of explanation. Here was a start, something into which they could get their teeth. From this they must push on to⁠—what?

Chan was waiting in the patio when Bob Eden came out. His face was decorated with a broad grin.

“Breakfast reposes on the table,” he announced. “Consume it speedily. Before us stretches splendid day for investigation with no prying eyes.”

“What’s that?” asked Eden. “Nobody here? How about Gamble?”

Chan led the way to the living-room, and held Bob Eden’s chair. “Oh, cut that, Charlie,” the boy said. “You’re not Ah Kim today. Do you mean to say that Gamble has also left us?”

Chan nodded. “Gamble develops keen yearning to visit Pasadena,” he replied. “On which journey he is welcome as one of his long-tailed rats.”

Eden quaffed his orange juice. “Madden didn’t want him, eh?”

“Not much,” Chan answered. “I rise before day breaks and prepare breakfast, which are last night’s orders. Madden and Thorn arrive, brushing persistent sleep out of eyes. Suddenly enters this Professor Gamble, plentifully awake and singing happy praise for desert sunrise. ‘You are up early,’ says Madden, growling like a dissatisfied dog. ‘Decided to take little journey to Pasadena along with you,’ announces Gamble. Madden purples like distant hills when evening comes, but regards me and quenches his reply. When he and Thorn enter big car, behold Mr. Gamble climbing into rear seat. If looks could assassinate Madden would then and there have rendered him extinct, but such are not the case. Car rolls off on to sunny road with Professor Gamble smiling pleasantly in back. Welcome as long-tailed rat, but not going to worry about it, thank you.”

Eden chuckled. “Well, it’s a good thing from our standpoint, Charlie. I was wondering what we were going to do with Gamble nosing round. Big load off our shoulders right away.”

“Very true,” agreed Chan. “Alone here, we relax all over place and find what is to find. How you like oatmeal, boy? Not so lumpy, if I may be permitted the immodesty.”

“Charlie, the world lost a great chef when you became a policeman. But⁠—the devil! Who’s that driving in?”

Chan went to the door. “No alarm necessary,” he remarked. “Only Mr. Holley.”

The editor appeared. “Here I am, up with the lark and ready for action,” he announced. “Want to be in on the big hunt, if you don’t mind.”

“Certainly don’t,” said Eden. “Glad to have you. We’ve had a bit of luck already.” He explained about Gamble’s departure.

Holley nodded wisely. “Of course Gamble went to Pasadena,” he remarked. “He’s not going to let Madden out of his sight. You know, I’ve had some flashes of inspiration about this matter out here.”

“Good for you,” replied Eden. “For instance⁠—”

“Oh, just wait a while. I’ll dazzle you with them at the proper moment. You see, I used to do a lot of police reporting. Little Bright Eyes I was often called.”

“Pretty name,” laughed Eden.

“Little Bright Eyes is here to look about,” Holley continued. “First of all, we ought to decide what we’re looking for.”

“I guess we know that, don’t we?” Eden asked.

“Oh, in a general way, but let’s be explicit. To go back and start at the beginning⁠—that’s the proper method, isn’t it, Chan?”

Charlie shrugged. “Always done⁠—in books,” he said. “In real life, not so much so.”

Holley smiled. “That’s right⁠—dampen my young enthusiasm. However, I am now going to recall a few facts. We needn’t stress the side issues at present⁠—the pearls, the activities of Shaky Phil in San Francisco, the murder of Louie, the disappearance of Madden’s daughter⁠—all these will be explained when we get the big answer. We are concerned today chiefly with the story of the old prospector.”

“Who may have been lying or mistaken,” Eden suggested.

“Yes⁠—his tale seems unbelievable, I admit. Without any evidence to back it up, I wouldn’t pay much attention to it. However, we have that evidence. Don’t forget Tony’s impassioned remarks, and his subsequent taking off. More important still, there is Bill Hart’s gun, with two empty chambers. Also the bullet-hole in the wall. What more do you want?”

“Oh, it seems to be well substantiated,” Eden agreed.

“It is. No doubt about it⁠—somebody was shot at this place Wednesday night. We thought at first Thorn was the killer, now we switch to Madden. Madden lured somebody to Thorn’s room, or cornered him there, and killed him. Why? Because he was afraid of him? We think hard about Wednesday night⁠—and what do we want to know? We want to know⁠—who was the third man?”

“The third man?” Eden repeated.

“Precisely. Ignore the prospector⁠—who was at the ranch? Madden and Thorn⁠—yes. And one other. A man who, seeing his life in danger, called loudly for help. A man who, a moment later, lay on the floor beyond the bed, and whose shoes alone were visible from where the prospector stood. Who was he? Where did he come from? When did he arrive? What was his business? Why was Madden afraid of him? These are questions to which we must now seek answers. Am I right, Sergeant Chan?”

“Undubitably,” Charlie replied. “And how shall we find those answers? By searching, perhaps. Humbly suggest we search.”

“Every nook and corner of this ranch,” agreed Holley. “We’ll begin with Madden’s desk. Some stray bit of correspondence may throw unexpected light. It’s locked, of course. But I’ve brought along a pocketful of old keys⁠—got them from a locksmith in town.”

“You act like number one detective,” Chan remarked.

“Thanks,” answered Holley. He went over to the big, flat-topped desk belonging to the millionaire and began to experiment with various keys. In a few moments he found the proper one and all the drawers stood open.

“Splendid work,” said Chan.

“Not much here, though,” Holley declared. He removed the papers from the top left-hand drawer and laid them on the blotting-pad. Bob Eden lighted a cigarette and strolled away. Somehow this idea of inspecting Madden’s mail did not appeal to him.

The representatives of the police and the Press, however, were not so delicately minded. For more than half an hour Chan and the editor studied the contents of Madden’s desk. They found nothing, save harmless and understandable data of business deals, not a solitary scrap that could by the widest stretch of the imagination throw any light on the identity or meaning of the third man. Finally, perspiring and baffled, they gave up and the drawers were relocked.

“Well,” said Holley, “not so good, eh? Mark the desk off our list and let’s move on.”

“With your permission,” Chan remarked, “we divide the labours. For you gentlemen the inside of the house. I myself have fondly feeling for outdoors.” He disappeared. One by one Holley and Eden searched the rooms. In the bedroom occupied by the secretary they saw for themselves the bullet-hole in the wall. An investigation of the bureau, however, revealed the fact that Bill Hart’s pistol was no longer there. This was their sole discovery of any interest.

“We’re up against it,” admitted Holley at length, his cheerful manner waning. “Madden’s a clever man, and he didn’t leave a warm trail, of course. But somehow⁠—somewhere⁠—”

They returned to the living-room. Chan, hot and puffing, appeared suddenly at the door. He dropped into a chair.

“What luck, Charlie?” Eden inquired.

“None whatever,” admitted Chan gloomily. “Heavy disappointment causes my heart to sag. No gambler myself, but would have offered huge wager something buried on this ranch. When Madden, having shot, remarked, ‘Shut up and forget. I was afraid and I killed. Now, think quick what we had better do,’ I would expect first thought is⁠—burial. How else to dispose of dead? So just now I have examined every inch of ground, with highest hope. No good. If burial made, it was not here. I see by your faces you have similar bafflement to report.”

“Haven’t found a thing,” Eden replied.

Chan sighed. “I drag the announcement forth in pain,” he said. “But I now gaze solemnly at stone wall.”

They sat in helpless silence. “Well, let’s not give up yet,” Bob Eden remarked. He leaned back in his chair and blew a ring of smoke toward the panelled ceiling. “By the way, has it ever occurred to you that there must be some sort of attic above this room?”

Chan was instantly on his feet. “Clever suggestion,” he cried. “Attic, yes, but how to ascend?” He stood staring at the ceiling a moment, then went quickly to a large closet in the rear of the room. “Somewhat humiliated situation for me,” he announced. Crowding close beside him in the dim closet, the other two looked aloft at an unmistakable trap-door.

Bob Eden was selected for the climb, and with the aid of a stepladder Chan brought from the barn he managed it easily. Holley and the detective waited below. For a moment Eden stood in the attic, his head bent low, cobwebs caressing his face, while he sought to accustom his eyes to the faint light.

“Nothing here, I’m afraid,” he called. “Oh, yes, there is. Wait a minute.”

They heard him walking gingerly above, and clouds of dust descended on their heads. Presently he was lowering a bulky object through the narrow trap⁠—a battered old Gladstone bag.

“Seems to be something in it,” Eden announced.

They took it with eager hands, and set it on the desk in the sunny living-room. Bob Eden joined them.

“By gad,” the boy said, “not much dust on it, is there? Must have been put there recently. Holley, here’s where your keys come in handy.”

It proved a simple matter for Holley to master the lock. The three men crowded close.

Chan lifted out a cheap toilet-case, with the usual articles⁠—a comb and brush, razors, shaving-cream, toothpaste, shirts, socks, handkerchiefs. He examined the laundry mark.

“D⁠—thirty-four,” he announced.

“Meaning nothing,” Eden said.

Chan was lifting a brown suit of clothes from the bottom of the bag.

“Made to order by tailor in New York,” he said, after an inspection of the inner coat-pocket. “Name of purchaser, however, is blotted out by too much wearing.” He took from the side-pockets a box of matches and a half-empty packet of inexpensive cigarettes. “Finishing the coat,” he added.

He turned his attention to the waistcoat, and luck smiled upon him. From the lower right-hand pocket he removed an old-fashioned watch, attached to a heavy chain. The timepiece was silent; evidently it had been unwound for some time. Quickly he pried open the back case, and a little grunt of satisfaction escaped him. He passed the watch to Bob Eden.

“Presented to Jerry Delaney by his old friend, Honest Jack McGuire,” read Eden in a voice of triumph. “And the date⁠—August twenty-sixth, 1913.”

“Jerry Delaney!” cried Holley. “By heaven, we’re getting on now. The name of the third man was Jerry Delaney.”

“Yet to be proved he was the third man,” Chan cautioned. “This, however, may help.”

He produced a soiled scrap of coloured paper⁠—a passenger’s receipt for a Pullman compartment. “Compartment B⁠—car one nine eight,” he read. “Chicago to Barstow.” He turned it over. “Date when used, February eighth, present year.”

Bob Eden turned to a calendar. “Great stuff,” he cried. “Jerry Delaney left Chicago on February eighth⁠—a week ago on Sunday night. That got him into Barstow last Wednesday morning, February eleventh⁠—the morning of the day he was killed. Some detectives, we are.”

Chan was still busy with the waistcoat. He brought forth a key-ring with a few keys, then a worn newspaper clipping. The latter he handed to Eden.

“Read it, please?” he suggested.

Bob Eden read:

“Theatregoers of Los Angeles will be delighted to know that in the cast of One Night in June, the musical comedy opening at the Mason next Monday night, will be Miss Norma Fitzgerald. She has the role of Marcia, which calls for a rich soprano voice, and her vast army of admirers hereabouts know in advance how well she will acquit herself in such a part. Miss Fitzgerald has been on the stage twenty years⁠—she went on as a mere child⁠—and has appeared in such productions as The Love Cure.”

Eden paused. “There’s a long list.” He resumed reading:

“Matinées of One Night in June will be on Wednesdays and Saturdays, and for this engagement a special scale of prices has been inaugurated.”

Eden put the clipping down on the table. “Well, that’s one more fact about Jerry Delaney. He was interested in a soprano. So many men are⁠—but still, it may lead somewhere.”

“Poor Jerry,” said Holley, looking down at the rather pitiful pile of the man’s possessions. “He won’t need a hairbrush, or a razor, or a gold watch where he’s gone.” He took up the watch and regarded it thoughtfully. “Honest Jack McGuire. I seem to have heard that name somewhere.”

Chan was investigating the trousers-pockets. He turned them out one by one, but found nothing.

“Search is now complete,” he announced. “Humbly suggest we put all back as we found it. We have made delightful progress.”

“I’ll say we have,” cried Eden, with enthusiasm. “More progress than I ever thought possible. Last night we knew only that Madden had killed a man. Today we know the name of the man.” He paused. “I don’t suppose there can be any doubt about it?” he inquired.

“Hardly,” Holley replied. “A man doesn’t part with such personal possessions as a hairbrush and a razor as long as he has any further use for them. If he’s through with them he’s through with life. Poor devil!”

“Let’s go over it all again before we put these things away,” said Eden. “We’ve learned that the man Madden feared, the man he killed, was Jerry Delaney. What do we know of Delaney? He was not in very affluent circumstances, though he did have his clothes made by a tailor. Not a smart tailor, judging by the address. He smoked Corsican cigarettes. Honest Jack McGuire, whoever he may be, was an old friend of his, and thought so highly of him he gave Jerry a watch. What else? Delaney was interested in an actress named Norma Fitzgerald. A week ago last Sunday he left Chicago at eight p.m.⁠—the Limited⁠—for Barstow, riding in compartment B, car one nine eight. And that, I guess, about sums up what we know of Jerry Delaney.”

Charlie Chan smiled. “Very good,” he said. “A splendid list, rich with promise. But one fact you have missed complete.”

“What’s that?” inquired Eden.

“One very easy fact,” continued Chan. “Take this vest once on Jerry Delaney. Examine close⁠—what do you discover?”

Carefully Eden looked over the waistcoat, then with a puzzled air handed it to Holley, who did the same. Holley shook his head.

“Nothing?” asked Chan, laughing silently. “Can it be you are not such able detectives as I thought? Here⁠—place hand in pocket.”

Bob Eden thrust his fingers into the pocket indicated by Chan. “It’s chamois-lined,” he said. “The watch-pocket, that’s all.”

“True enough,” answered Chan. “And on the left, I presume.”

Eden looked foolish. “Oh,” he admitted, “I get you. The watch-pocket is on the right.”

“And why?” persisted Charlie. “With coat buttoned, certain man cannot reach watch easily when it reposes at left. Therefore he instructs tailor, make pocket for watch on right, please.” He began to fold up the clothes in order to return them to the bag. “One other fact we know about Jerry Delaney, and it may be used in tracing his movements the day he came to this ranch. Jerry Delaney had peculiarity to be left-handed.”

“Great Scott!” cried Holley suddenly. They turned to him. He had picked up the watch again and was staring at it. “Honest Jack McGuire⁠—I remember now.”

“You know this McGuire?” inquired Chan quickly.

“I met him long ago,” Holley replied. “The first night I brought Mr. Eden out here to the ranch he asked me if I’d ever seen P. J. Madden before. I said that twelve years ago I saw Madden in a gambling-house on East Forty-fourth Street, New York, dolled up like a prince and betting his head off. Madden himself remembered the occasion when I spoke to him about it.”

“But McGuire?” Chan wanted to know.

“I recall now that the name of the man who ran that gambling-house was Jack McGuire. Honest Jack, he had the nerve to call himself. It was a queer joint⁠—that was later proved. But Jack McGuire was Delaney’s old friend⁠—he gave Jerry a watch as a token of their friendship. Gentlemen, this is interesting. McGuire’s gambling-house on Forty-fourth Street comes back into the life of P. J. Madden.”