The sun set behind far peaks of snow; the desert purpled under a sprinkling of stars. In the thermometer that hung on a patio wall the mercury began its quick, relentless fall, a sharp wind swept over the desolate waste, and loneliness settled on the world.

“Warm food needed now,” remarked Chan. “With your permission I will open numerous cans.”

“Anything but the arsenic,” Eden told him. He departed for the cookhouse.

Holley had long since gone, and Bob Eden sat alone by the window, looking out at a vast silence. Lots of room left in America yet, he reflected. Did they think of that, those throngs of people packed into subways at this hour, seeking tables in noisy restaurants, waiting at jammed corners for the traffic signal, climbing weary and worn at last to the pigeonholes they called home? Elbow room on the desert; room to expand the chest. But a feeling of disquiet, too, a haunting realization of one man’s ridiculous unimportance in the scheme of things.

Chan entered with a tray on which the dishes were piled high. He set down on the table two steaming plates of soup.

“Deign to join me,” he suggested. “First course is now served with the kind assistance of the can-opener.”

“Aged in the tin, eh, Charlie?” smiled Eden, drawing up. “Well, I’ll bet it’s good at that. You’re a bit of a magician in the kitchen.” They began to eat. “Charlie, I’ve been thinking,” the boy continued. “I know now why I have this sense of unrest on the desert. It’s because I feel so blamed small. Look at me, and then look out the window, and tell me where I get off to strut like a somebody through the world.”

“Not bad feeling for the white man to experience,” Chan assured him. “Chinese has it all time. Chinese knows he is one minute grain of sand on seashore of eternity. With what result? He is calm and quiet and humble. No nerves, like hopping, skipping Caucasian. Life for him not so much ordeal.”

“Yes, and he’s happier too,” said Eden.

“Sure,” replied Chan. He produced a platter of canned salmon. “All time in San Francisco I behold white men hot and excited. Life like a fever, always getting worse. What for? Where does it end? Same place as Chinese life, I think.”

When they had finished Eden attempted to help with the dishes, but was politely restrained. He sat down and turned on the wireless set. The strong voice of a leather-lunged announcer rang out in the quiet room.

“Now, folks, we got a real treat for you this balmy, typical California evening. Miss Norma Fitzgerald, of the One Night in June company, now playing at the Mason, is going to sing⁠—er⁠—what are you going to sing, Norma? Norma says wait and find out.”

At mention of the girl’s name Bob Eden called to the detective, who entered and stood expectantly. “Hello, folks,” came Miss Fitzgerald’s greeting. “I certainly am glad to be back in good old L.A.”

“Hello, Norma,” Eden said, “never mind the songs. Two gentlemen out on the desert would like a word with you. Tell us about Jerry Delaney.”

She couldn’t have heard him, for she began to sing in a clear, beautiful soprano voice. Chan and the boy listened in silence.

“More of the white man’s mysteries,” Charlie remarked when she had finished. “So near to her, and yet so far away. Seems to me that we must visit this lady soon.”

“Ah, yes⁠—but how?” inquired Eden.

“It will be arranged,” Chan said, and vanished.

Eden tried a book. An hour later he was interrupted by the peal of the telephone-bell, and a cheery voice answered his hello.

“Still pining for the bright lights?”

“I sure am,” he replied.

“Well, the movies are in town,” said Paula Wendell. “Come on in.”

He hurried to his room. Chan had built a fire in the patio, and was sitting before it, the warm light flickering on his chubby, impassive face. When Eden returned with his hat he paused beside the detective.

“Getting some new ideas?” he asked.

“About our puzzle?” Chan shook his head. “No. At this moment I am far from Madden’s ranch. I am in Honolulu, where nights are soft and sweet, not like chilly desert dark. Must admit my heart is weighed a little with homesick qualms. I picture my humble house on Punch Bowl Hill, where lanterns glow and my ten children are gathered round.”

“Ten!” cried Eden. “Great Scott⁠—you are a father.”

“Very proud one,” assented Chan. “You are going from here?”

“I’m running in town for a while. Miss Wendell called up⁠—it seems the picture people have arrived. By the way, I just remembered⁠—tomorrow is the day Madden promised they could come out here. I bet the old man’s clean forgot it.”

“Most likely. Better not to tell him, he might refuse permission. I have unlimited yearning to see movies in throes of being born. Should I go home and report that experience to my eldest daughter, who is all time sunk in movie magazines, ancestor-worship breaks out plenty strong at my house.”

Eden laughed. “Well, then, let’s hope you get the chance. I’ll be back early.”

A few minutes later he was again in the small runabout, under the platinum stars. He thought fleetingly of Louie Wong, buried now in the bleak little graveyard beyond Eldorado, but his mind turned quickly to happier things. With a lively feeling of anticipation he climbed between the twin hills at the gateway, and the yellow lights of the desert town were winking at him.

The moment he crossed the threshold of the Desert Edge Hotel, he knew this was no ordinary night in Eldorado. From the parlour at the left came the strains of giddy, inharmonious music, laughter, and a medley of voices. Paula Wendell met him and led him in.

The stuffy little room, dated by heavy mission furniture and bits of broken plaster hanging crazily from the ceiling, was renewing its youth in pleasant company. Bob Eden met the movies in their hours of ease, childlike, happy people, seemingly without a care in the world. A very pretty girl gave him a hand which recalled his father’s jewellery shop, and then restored it to the ukelele she was playing. A tall young man designated as Rannie, whose clothes were perfection and whose collar and shirt shamed the blue of California’s sky, desisted briefly from his torture of a saxophone.

“Hello, old-timer,” he remarked. “I hope you brought your harp.” And instantly ran amuck on the saxophone again.

A middle-aged actor with a bronzed, rather hard face was officiating at the piano. In a far corner a grand dame and an old man with snow-white hair sat apart from the crowd, and Eden dropped down beside them.

“What was the name?” asked the old man, his hand behind his ear. “Ah, yes, I’m glad to meet any friend of Paula’s. We’re a little clamorous here tonight, Mr. Eden. It’s like the early days when I was trouping⁠—how we used to skylark on station platforms! We were happy then⁠—no movies. Eh, my dear?” he added to the woman.

She bent a little. “Yes⁠—but I never trouped much. Thank heaven I was usually able to steer clear of those terrible towns where Main Street is upstairs. Mr. Belasco rarely asked me to leave New York.” She turned to Eden. “I was in Belasco companies fifteen years,” she explained.

“Wonderful experience, no doubt,” the boy replied.

“Greatest school in the world,” she said. “Mr. Belasco thought very highly of my work. I remember once at a dress rehearsal he told me he could never have put on the piece without me, and he gave me a big red apple. You know that was Mr. Belasco’s way of⁠—”

The din had momentarily stopped, and the leading man cried:

“Suffering cats! She’s telling him about the apple, and the poor guy only just got here. Go on, Fanny, spring the one about the time you played Portia. What Charlie Frohman said⁠—as soon as he came to, I mean.”

“Humph,” shrugged Fanny. “If you young people in this profession had a few traditions like us, the pictures wouldn’t be such a joke. I thank my stars⁠—”

“Hush, everybody,” put in Paula Wendell. “Introducing Miss Diane Day on Hollywood’s favourite instrument, the ukulele.”

The girl she referred to smiled and, amid a sudden silence, launched into a London music-hall song. Like most of its genre, its import was not such as to recommend it for a church social, but she did it well, with a note of haunting sweetness in her voice. After another of the same sort she switched suddenly into “Way Down Upon the Swanee River,” and there were tears in her voice now, a poignant sadness in the room. It was too solemn for Rannie.

“Mr. Eddie Boston at the piano, Mr. Randolph Renault handling the saxophone,” he shouted, “will now offer for your approval that touching ballad, ‘So’s Your Old Mandarin.’ Let her go, professor.”

“Don’t think they’re always like this,” Paula Wendell said to Eden above the racket. “It’s only when they have a hotel to themselves, as they usually have here.”

They had it indeed to themselves, save for the lads of the village, who suddenly found pressing business in the lobby, and passed and repassed the parlour door, open-mouthed with wonder.

The approval shown the instrumental duet was scant indeed, due, Mr. Renault suggested, to professional jealousy.

“The next number on our very generous programme,” he announced, “will follow immediately. It’s called ‘Let’s Talk About My Sweetie Now.’ On your mark⁠—Eddie.”

“Nothing doing,” cried the girl known as Diane. “I haven’t had my Charleston lesson today, and it’s getting late. Eddie⁠—kindly oblige.”

Eddie obliged. In another moment everyone save the two old people in the corner had leaped into action. The framed autographed portraits that other film celebrities had bestowed on the proprietor of the Desert Edge rattled on the walls. The windows shook. Suddenly in the doorway appeared a bald man with a gloomy eye.

“Good Lord,” he shouted, “how do you expect me to get my rest?”

“Hello, Mike,” cried Rannie. “What is it you want to rest from?”

“You direct a gang like this for a while, and you’ll know,” replied Mike sourly. “It’s ten o’clock. If you’ll take my advice for once, you’ll turn in. Everybody’s to report in costume here in the lobby tomorrow morning at eight-thirty.”

This news was greeted with a chorus of low moans. “Nine-thirty, you say?” Rannie inquired.

“Eight-thirty. You heard me. And anybody who’s late pays a good stiff fine. Now please go to bed and let decent people sleep.”

“Decent people?” repeated Rannie softly, as the director vanished. “He’s flattering himself again.” But the party was over, and the company moved reluctantly up the stairs to the second floor. Mr. Renault returned the saxophone to the desk.

“Say, landlord, there’s a sour note in this thing,” he complained. “Have it fixed before I come again.”

“Sure will, Mr. Renault,” promised the proprietor.

“Too early for bed, no matter what Mike says,” remarked Eden, piloting Paula Wendell to the street. “Let’s take a walk. Eldorado doesn’t look much like Union Square, but night air is night air wherever you find it.”

“Lucky for me it isn’t Union Square,” said the girl. “I wouldn’t be tagging along if it was.”

“Is that so?”

They strolled down Main Street, white and empty in the moonlight. In a lighted window of the Spot Cash Store hung a brilliant patchwork quilt.

“To be raffled off by the ladies of the Orange Blossom Club for the benefit of the Orphans’ Home,” Eden read. “Think I’ll take a chance on that tomorrow.”

“Better not get mixed up with any Orange Blossom Club,” suggested Paula Wendell.

“Oh, I can take care of myself. And it’s the orphans I’m thinking of, you know.”

“That’s your kind heart,” she answered. They climbed a narrow, sandy road. Yellow lamplight in the front window of a bungalow was suddenly blotted out.

“Look at that moon,” said Eden. “Looks like a slice of honeydew melon just off the ice.”

“Fond of food, aren’t you?” remarked the girl. “I’ll always think of you wrestling with that steak.”

“A man must eat. And if it hadn’t been for the steak we might never have met.”

“What if we hadn’t?” she asked.

“Pretty lonesome for me down here in that event.” They turned about in silence. “You know, I’ve been thinking,” Eden continued. “We’re bound to come to the end of things at the ranch presently. And I’ll have to go back⁠—”

“Back to your freedom. That will be nice.”

“You bet it will. All the same, I don’t want you to forget me after I’ve gone. I want to go on being your⁠—er⁠—your friend. Or what have you?”

“Splendid. One always needs friends.”

“Write to me occasionally. I’ll want to know how Wilbur is. You never can tell⁠—is he careful crossing the streets?”

“Wilbur will always be fine, I’m sure.” They stopped before the hotel. “Good night,” said the girl.

“Just a minute. If there hadn’t been a Wilbur⁠—”

“But there was. Don’t commit yourself. I’m afraid it’s the moon, looking so much like a slice of melon⁠—”

“It’s not the moon. It’s you.”

The proprietor of the Desert Edge came to the door. Dim lights burned in the interior of the hotel.

“Lord, Miss Wendell,” he said. “I nearly locked you out.”

“I’m coming,” returned the girl. “See you at the ranch tomorrow, Mr. Eden.”

“Fine,” answered Eden. He nodded to the landlord, and the front door of the hotel banged to in his face.

As he drove out across the lonely desert he began to wonder what he was going to say to the restless P. J. Madden when he reached the ranch. The millionaire would be home from Pasadena now; he had expected to meet Draycott there. And Draycott was in San Francisco, little dreaming of the part his name was playing in the drama of the Phillimore pearls. P. J. would be furious; he would demand an explanation.

But nothing like that happened. The ranch-house was in darkness and only Ah Kim was in evidence about the place.

“Madden and others in bed now,” explained the Chinese. “Came home tired and very much dusted and at once retired to rooms.”

“Well, I’ve got it on good authority that tomorrow is another day,” replied Eden. “I’ll turn in too.”

When he reached the breakfast-table on Thursday morning the three men were there before him. “Everything run off smoothly in Pasadena yesterday?” he inquired brightly.

Thorn and Gamble stared at him, and Madden frowned. “Yes, yes, of course,” he said. He added a look which clearly meant, “Shut up.”

After breakfast Madden joined the boy in the yard. “Keep that matter of Draycott to yourself,” he ordered.

“You saw him, I suppose?” Eden inquired.

“I did not.”

“What! Why, that’s too bad. But not knowing each other I suppose⁠—”

“No sign of anybody that looked like your man to me. You know, I’m beginning to wonder about you⁠—”

“But, Mr. Madden, I told him to be there.”

“Well, as a matter of fact, I didn’t care especially. Things didn’t work out as I expected. I think now you’d better get hold of him and tell him to come to Eldorado. Did he call you up?”

“He may have. I was in town last night. At any rate, he’s sure to call soon.”

“Well, if he doesn’t you’d better go over to Pasadena and get hold of him⁠—”

A truck filled with motion-picture cameramen, props, and actors in weird costumes stopped before the ranch. Two other cars followed. Someone alighted to open the gate.

“What’s this?” cried Madden.

“This is Thursday,” answered Eden. “Have you forgotten⁠—”

“Forgot it completely,” said Madden. “Thorn! Where’s Thorn?”

The secretary emerged from the house. “It’s the movies, chief. This was the day⁠—”

“Damnation!” growled Madden. “Well, we’ll have to go through with it. Martin, you look after things.” He went inside.

The movies were all business this morning, in contrast to the careless gaiety of the night before. The cameras were set up in the open end of the patio. The actors, in Spanish costume, stood ready. Bob Eden went over to Paula Wendell.

“Good morning,” she said. “I came along in case Madden tried to renig on his promise. You see, I know so much about him now⁠—”

The director passed. “This will be OK,” he remarked to the girl.

“Pleased him for once,” she smiled to Eden. “That ought to get into the papers.”

The script was a story of old California, and presently they were grinding away at a big scene in the patio.

“No, no, no,” wailed the director. “What ails you this morning, Rannie? You’re saying goodbye to the girl⁠—you love her⁠—love her⁠—love her. You’ll probably never see her again.”

“The hell I won’t,” replied the actor. “Then the thing’s a flop right now.”

“You know what I mean⁠—you think you’ll never see her again. Her father has just kicked you out of the house forever. A bit of a critic, the father. But come on⁠—this is the big farewell. Your heart is broken. Broken, my boy⁠—what are you grinning about?”

“Come on, Diane,” said the actor. “I’m never going to see you again, and I’m supposed to be sorry about it. Ye gods, the things these scriptwriters imagine. However, here goes. My art’s equal to anything.”

Eden strolled over to where the white-haired patriarch and Eddie Boston were sitting together on a pile of lumber beside the barn. Near at hand Ah Kim hovered, all eyes for these queer antics of the white men.

Boston leaned back and lighted a pipe. “Speaking of Madden,” he remarked, “makes me think of Jerry Delaney. Ever know Jerry, Pop?”

Startled, Eden moved nearer. The old man put his hand behind his ear.

“Who’s that?” he inquired.

“Delaney,” shouted Boston. Chan also edged closer. “Jerry Delaney. There was one smooth worker in his line, Pop. I hope I get a chance⁠—I’m going to ask Madden if he remembers⁠—”

A loud outcry for Mr. Boston arose in the patio, and he laid down his pipe and fled. Chan and Bob Eden looked at each other.

The company worked steadily until the lunch hour arrived. Then, scattered about the yard and the patio, they busied themselves with the generous sandwiches of the Oasis and with coffee served from thermos bottles. Suddenly Madden appeared in the doorway of the living-room. He was in a genial mood.

“Just a word of welcome,” he said. “Make yourselves at home.” He shook hands with the director and, moving about, spoke a few moments with each member of the company in turn. The girl named Diane held his attention for some time.

Presently he came to Eddie Boston. Casually Eden managed it so that he was nearby during that interview.

“Boston’s the name,” said the actor. His hard face lighted. “I was hoping to meet you, Mr. Madden. I wanted to ask if you remember an old friend of mine⁠—Jerry Delaney, of New York?”

Madden’s eyes narrowed, but the poker face triumphed.

“Delaney?” he repeated vacantly.

“Yes⁠—Jerry Delaney, who used to hang out at Jack McGuire’s place on Forty-fourth Street,” Boston persisted. “You know, he⁠—”

“I don’t recall him,” said Madden. He was moving away. “I meet so many people.”

“Maybe you don’t want to recall him,” said Boston, and there was an odd note in his voice. “I can’t say I blame you either, sir. No, I guess you wouldn’t care much for Delaney. It was a crime what he did to you⁠—”

Madden looked anxiously about. “What do you know about Delaney?” he asked in a low tone.

“I know a lot about him,” Boston replied. He came close, and Bob Eden could barely distinguish the words. “I know all about Delaney, Mr. Madden.”

For a moment they stood staring at each other.

“Come inside, Mr. Boston,” Madden suggested, and Eden watched them disappear through the door into the living-room.

Ah Kim came into the patio with a tray on which were cigars and cigarettes, the offering of the host. As he paused before the director, that gentleman looked at him keenly. “By gad, here’s a type,” he cried. “Say, John⁠—how’d you like to act in the pictures?”

“You clazy, boss,” grinned Ah Kim.

“No, I’m not. We could use you in Hollywood.”

“Him lookee like you make ’um big joke.”

“Nothing of the kind. You think it over. Here.” He wrote on a card. “You change your mind, you come and see me. Savvy?”

“Maybe nuddah day, boss. Plenty happly heah now.” He moved along with his tray.

Bob Eden sat down beside Paula Wendell. He was, for all his outward calm, in a very perturbed state of mind.

“Look here,” he began, “something has happened, and you can help us again.” He explained about Jerry Delaney, and repeated the conversation he had just overheard between Madden and Eddie Boston. The girl’s eyes were wide. “It wouldn’t do for Chan or me to make any inquiries,” he added. “What sort of fellow is this Boston?”

“Rather unpleasant person,” she said. “I’ve never liked him.”

“Well, suppose you ask him a few questions, the first chance you have. I presume that won’t come until you get back to town. Find out all he knows about Jerry Delaney, but do it in a way that won’t rouse his suspicions, if you can.”

“I’ll certainly try,” she answered. “I’m not very clever⁠—”

“Who says you’re not? You’re mighty clever⁠—and kind too. Call me up as soon as you’ve talked with him, and I’ll hurry in town.”

The director was on his feet. “Come on⁠—let’s get this thing finished. Is everybody here? Eddie! Where’s Eddie?”

Mr. Boston emerged from the living-room, his face a mask, telling nothing. Not going to be an easy matter, Bob Eden reflected, to pump Eddie Boston.

An hour later the movies vanished down the road in a cloud of dust, with Paula Wendell’s roadster trailing. Bob Eden sought out Charlie Chan. In the seclusion behind the cookhouse, he again went over Boston’s surprising remarks to Madden. The detective’s little black eyes shone.

“We march again,” he said. “Eddie Boston becomes with sudden flash our one best wager. He must be made to talk. But how?”

“Paula Wendell’s going to have a try at it,” Eden replied.

Chan nodded. “Fine idea, I think. In presence of pretty girl what man keeps silent? We pin our eager hopes on that.”