For a time the little brother of the car on Punch Bowl Hill ploughed valiantly on, and neither the detective nor Bob Eden spoke. The yellow glare of the sun was cooling on the grey livery of the desert; the shadows cast by the occasional trees grew steadily longer. The far-off mountains purpled and the wind bestirred itself.

“Charlie,” said Bob Eden. “What do you think of this country?”

“This desert land?” asked Charlie.

Eden nodded.

“Happy to have seen it. All my time I yearn to encounter change. Certainly have encountered that here.”

“Yes, I guess you have. Not much like Hawaii, is it?”

“I will say so. Hawaii lie like handful of Phillimore pearls on heaving breast of ocean. Oahu little island with very wet neighbourhood all about. Moisture hangs in air all time, rain called liquid sunshine, breath of ocean pretty damp. Here I climb round to other side of picture. Air is dry like last year’s newspaper.”

“They tell me you can love this country if you try.”

Chan shrugged. “For my part, I reserve my efforts in that line for other locality. Very much impressed by desert, thank you, but will move on at earliest opportunity.”

“Here, too,” Eden laughed. “Comes the night, and I long for lights about me that are bright. A little restaurant on O’Farrell Street, a few good fellows, a bottle of mineral water on the table. Human companionship, if it’s not asking too much.”

“Natural you feel that way,” Chan agreed. “Youth is in your heart like a song. Because of you I am hoping we can soon leave Madden’s ranch.”

“Well, what do you think? What are we going to do now?”

“Watch and wait. Youth, I am thinking, does not like that business. But it must be. Speaking personally for myself, I am not having one happy fine time either. Act of cooking food not precisely my idea of merry vacation.”

“Well, Charlie, I can stick it if you can,” Eden said.

“Plenty fine sport you are,” Chan replied. “Problems that we face are not without interest, for that matter. Most peculiar situation. At home I am called to look at crime, clear-cut like heathen idol’s face. Somebody killed, maybe. Clues are plenty, I push little car down one path, I sway about, seeking another. Not so here. Starting forth to solve big mystery, I must first ask myself, just what are this big mystery I am starting forth to solve?”

“You’ve said it,” Eden laughed.

“Yet one big fact gleams clear like snow on distant mountain. On recent night, at Madden’s ranch, unknown person was murdered. Who unknown was, why he was killed, and who officiated at the homicide⁠—these are simple little matters remaining to be cleared.”

“And what have we to go on?” Eden asked helplessly.

“A parrot’s cry at night. The rude removal of that unhappy bird. A bullet-hole hiding back of picture recently changed about. An aged pistol gone from dusty wall. All the more honour for us if we unravel from such puny clues.”

“One thing I can’t figure out⁠—among others,” said Eden. “What about Madden? Does he know? Or is that sly little Thorn pulling something off alone?”

“Important questions,” Chan agreed. “In time we learn the answers, maybe. Meanwhile best to make no friend of Madden. You have told him nothing about San Francisco, I hope. Shaky Phil Maydorf and his queer behaviour.”

“No, oddly enough, I haven’t. I was wondering whether I hadn’t better, now that Maydorf has shown up in Eldorado.”

“Why? Pearls are in no danger. Did I hear you say in newspaper office you would greatly honour by following me?”

“You certainly did.”

“Then, for Madden, more of the hoomalimali. Nothing to be gained by other course, much maybe lost. You tell him of Maydorf, and he might answer, deal is off here, bring pearls to New York. What then? You go away, he goes away, I go way. Mystery of recent event at ranch-house never solved.”

“I guess you’re right,” said Eden. They sped on through the gathering dusk, past the little office of the Date City optimist, deserted now. “By the way,” added the boy, “this thing you think has happened at the ranch⁠—it may have occurred last Wednesday night?”

“You have fondly feeling for Wednesday night?” asked Chan. “Why?”

Briefly Bob Eden related Paula Wendell’s story of that night⁠—Thorn’s obvious excitement when he met her at the door, his insistence that Madden could not speak to her, and, most important of all, the little prospector with the black beard whom the girl saw in the yard. Chan listened with interest.

“Now you talk,” he commented. “Here is one fine new clue for us. He may be most important, that black-bearded one. A desert rat, I think. The young woman goes much about this country? Am I correct?”

“Yes, she does.”

“She can retain secrets, maybe?”

“You bet⁠—this girl can.”

“Don’t trust her. We talk all over place we may get sorry after while. However, venture so far as to ask please that she keep her pretty eyes open for that black-bearded rat. Who knows? Maybe he is vital link in our chain.” They were approaching the little oasis Madden had set on the desert’s dusty face. “Go in now,” Chan continued, “and act innocent like very new baby. When you talk with Father over telephone, you will find he is prepared. I have sent him telegraph.”

“You have?” said Eden. “So did I. I sent him a couple of them.”

“Then he is all prepared. Among other matters, I presumed to remind him voice coming over wire is often grasped by others in room as well as him who reclines at telephone.”

“Say⁠—that’s a good idea. I guess you think of everything, Charlie.”

The gate was open, and Chan turned the car into the yard. “Guess I do,” he sighed. “Now, with depressing reluctance, I must think of dinner. Recall, we watch and wait. And when we meet alone, the greatest care. No one must pierce my identity. Only this noon I could well have applied to myself resounding kick. That word unevitable too luxurious for poor old Ah Kim. In future I must pick over words like lettuce for salad. Goodbye, and splendid luck.”

In the living-room a fire was already blazing in the huge fireplace. Madden sat at a broad, flat-topped desk, signing letters. He looked up as Bob Eden entered.

“Hello,” he said. “Have a pleasant afternoon?”

“Quite,” the boy replied. “I trust you had the same.”

“I did not,” Madden answered. “Even here I can’t get away from business. Been catching up with a three day’s accumulation of mail. There you are, Martin,” he added, as the secretary entered. “I believe you’ll have time to take them in to the post-office before dinner. And here are the telegrams⁠—get them off too. Take the little car⁠—it’ll make better speed over these roads.”

Thorn gathered up the letters, and with expert hands began folding them and placing them in envelopes. Madden rose, stretched, and came over to the fire. “Ah Kim brought you back?” he inquired.

“He did,” Bob Eden answered.

“Knows how to drive a car all right?” persisted Madden.

“Perfectly.”

“An unusual boy, Ah Kim.”

“Oh, not very,” Eden said carelessly. “He told me he used to drive a vegetable truck in Los Angeles. I got that much out of him, but that’s about all.”

“Silent, eh?”

Eden nodded. “Silent as a lawyer from Northampton, Massachusetts,” he remarked.

Madden laughed. “By the way,” he said, as Thorn went out, “your father didn’t call.”

“No? Well, he isn’t likely to get home until evening. I’ll try the house tonight, if you want me to.”

“I wish you would,” Madden said. “I don’t want to seem inhospitable, my boy, but I’m very anxious to get away from here. Certain matters in the mail today⁠—you understand⁠—”

“Of course,” Bob Eden answered. “I’ll do all I can to help.”

“That’s mighty good of you,” Madden told him, and the boy felt a bit guilty. “I think I’ll take a nap before dinner. I find, nowadays, it’s a great aid to digestion.” The famous millionaire was more human than Bob Eden had yet seen him. He stood looking down at the boy wistfully. “A matter you can’t grasp, just yet,” he added. “You’re so damned young⁠—I envy you.”

He went out, leaving Bob Eden to a Los Angeles paper he had picked up in Eldorado. From time to time, as the boy read, the quaint little figure of Ah Kim passed noiselessly. He was setting the table for dinner.

An hour later, there on the lonely desert, they again sat down to Ah Kim’s cooking. Very different from the restaurant of which Bob Eden thought with longing, but if the company was far from lively, the food was excellent, for the Chinese had negotiated well. When the servant came in with coffee Madden said:

“Light the fire in the patio, Ah Kim. We’ll sit out there awhile.”

The Chinese went to comply with this order, and Eden saw Madden regarding him expectantly. He smiled and rose.

“Well, Dad ought to be struggling in from his hard day on the links any minute now,” he said. “I’ll put in that call.”

Madden leapt up. “Let me do it,” he suggested. “Just tell me the number.”

The boy told him, and Madden spoke over the telephone in a voice to command respect.

“By the way,” he said, when he had finished, “last night you intimated that certain things happened in San Francisco⁠—things that made your father cautious. What⁠—if you don’t mind telling me?”

Bob Eden thought rapidly. “Oh, it may all have been a detective’s pipe-dream. I’m inclined to think now that it was. You see⁠—”

“Detective? What detective?”

“Well, naturally Dad has a tie-up with various private detective agencies. An operative of one of them reported that a famous crook had arrived in town and was showing an undue interest in our store. Of course, it may have meant nothing⁠—”

“A famous crook, eh? Who?”

Never a good liar, Bob Eden hesitated. “I⁠—I don’t know that I remember the name. English, I believe⁠—the Liverpool Kid, or something like that,” he invented lamely.

Madden shrugged. “Well, if anything’s leaked out about those pearls, it came from your side of the deal,” he said. “My daughter, Thorn, and I have certainly been discretion itself. However, I’m inclined to think it’s all a pipe-dream, as you say.”

“Probably is,” agreed Eden.

“Come outside,” the millionaire invited. He led the way through the glass doors to the patio. There, a huge fire roared in the outdoor fireplace, glowing red on the stone floor and on wicker chairs. “Sit down,” suggested Madden. “A cigar⁠—no, you prefer your cigarette, eh?” He lighted up, and, leaning back in his chair, stared up at the dark roof above⁠—the far-off roof of the sky. “I like it out here best,” he went on. “A bit chilly, maybe, but you get close to the desert. Ever notice how white the stars are in this country?”

Eden looked at him with surprise. “Sure⁠—I’ve noticed,” he said. “But I never dreamed you had, old boy,” he added to himself.

Inside Thorn was busy at the wireless receiver. A horrible medley of bedtime stories, violin solos, and lectures on health and beauty drifted out to them. And then the shrill voice of a woman, urging sinners to repent.

“Get Denver,” Madden called loudly.

“I’m trying, chief,” answered Thorn.

“If I must listen to the confounded thing,” Madden added to the boy, “I want what I hear to come from far away. Over the mountains and the plains⁠—there’s romance in that.” The crackling of the loudspeaker swept suddenly into a brisk band tune. “That’s it,” nodded Madden. “The orchestra at the Brown Palace in Denver⁠—perhaps my girl is dancing to that very music at this moment. Poor kid⁠—she’ll wonder what’s become of me. I promised to be there two days ago. Thorn!”

The secretary appeared at the door. “Yes, chief?”

“Remind me to send Evelyn a wire in the morning.”

“I’ll do that, chief,” said Thorn, and vanished.

“And the band played on,” remarked Madden. “All the way from Denver, mile high amid the Rockies. I tell you, man’s getting too clever. He’s riding for a fall. Probably a sign of age, Mr. Eden, but I find myself longing for the older, simpler days. When I was a boy on the farm, winter mornings, the little schoolhouse in the valley. That sledge I wanted⁠—hard times, yes, but times that made men. Oh, well, I mustn’t get started on that.”

They listened in silence, but presently a bedtime story brought a bellow of rage from the millionaire, and Thorn, getting his cue, shut off the machine.

Madden stirred restlessly in his chair. “We haven’t enough for bridge,” he remarked. “How about a little poker to pass the time, my boy?”

“Why⁠—that would be fine,” Eden replied. “I’m afraid you’re pretty speedy company for me, however.”

“Oh, that’s all right⁠—we’ll put a limit on it.”

Madden was on his feet, eager for action. “Come along.”

They went into the living-room and closed the doors. A few moments later the three of them sat about a big round table under a brilliant light.

“Jacks or better,” Madden said. “Quarter limit, eh?”

“Well⁠—” replied Eden dubiously.

He had good reason to be dubious, for he was instantly plunged into the poker game of his life. He had played at college, and was even able to take care of himself in newspaper circles in San Francisco, but all that was child’s play by comparison. Madden was no longer the man who noticed how white the stars were. He noticed how red, white, and blue the chips were, and he caressed them with loving hands. He was Madden, the plunger, the gambler with railroads and steel mills and the fortunes of little nations abroad, the Madden who, after he had played all day in Wall Street, was wont to seek the roulette-wheels on Forty-fourth Street at night.

“Aces,” he cried. “Three of them. What have you got, Eden?”

“Apoplexy,” remarked Eden, tossing aside his hand. “Right here and now I offer to sell my chances in this game for a cancelled postage stamp, or what have you?”

“Good experience for you,” Madden replied. “Martin⁠—it’s your deal.”

A knock sounded suddenly on the door, loud and clear. Bob Eden felt a strange sinking of the heart. Out of the desert dark, out of the vast, uninhabited wastes of the world, someone spoke and demanded to come in.

“Who can that be?” Madden frowned.

“Police,” suggested Eden hopefully. “The joint is pinched.” No such luck, he reflected.

Thorn was dealing, and Madden himself went to the door and swung it open. From where he sat Eden had a clear view of the dark desert⁠—and of the man who stood in the light. A thin man in an overcoat, a man he had seen first in a San Francisco pier-shed, and later in front of the Desert Edge Hotel. Shaky Phil Maydorf himself, but now without the dark glasses hiding his eyes.

“Good evening,” said Maydorf, and his voice too was thin and cold. “This is Mr. Madden’s ranch, I believe?”

“I’m Madden. What can I do for you?”

“I’m looking for an old friend of mine⁠—your secretary, Martin Thorn.”

Thorn rose and came round the table. “Oh, hello,” he said, with slight enthusiasm.

“You remember me, don’t you?” said the thin man. “McCallum⁠—Henry McCallum. I met you at a dinner in New York a year ago.”

“Yes, of course,” answered Thorn. “Come in, won’t you? This is Mr. Madden.”

“A great honour,” said Shaky Phil.

“And Mr. Eden, of San Francisco.”

Eden rose, and faced Shaky Phil Maydorf. The man’s eyes without the glasses were barbed and cruel, like the desert foliage. For a long moment he stared insolently at the boy. Did he realize, Eden wondered, that his movements on the dock at San Francisco had not gone unnoticed? If he did his nerve was excellent.

“Glad to know you, Mr. Eden,” he said.

“Mr. McCallum,” returned the boy gravely.

Maydorf turned again to Madden. “I hope I’m not intruding,” he remarked with a wan smile. “Fact is, I’m stopping down the road at Doctor Whitcomb’s⁠—bronchitis, that’s my trouble. It’s lonesome as the devil round here, and when I heard Mr. Thorn was in the neighbourhood I couldn’t resist the temptation to drop in.”

“Glad you did,” Madden said, but his tone belied the words.

“Don’t let me interrupt your game,” Maydorf went on. “Poker, eh? Is this a private scrap, or can anybody get into it?”

“Take off your coat,” Madden responded sourly, “and sit up. Martin, give the gentleman a stack of chips.”

“This is living again,” said the newcomer, accepting briskly. “Well, and how have you been, Thorn, old man?”

Thorn, with his usual lack of warmth, admitted that he had been pretty good, and the game was resumed. If Bob Eden had feared for his immediate future before, he now gave up all hope. Sitting in a poker game with Shaky Phil⁠—well, he was certainly travelling and seeing the world.

“Gimme four cards,” said Mr. Maydorf, through his teeth.

If it had been a bitter, brutal struggle before, it now became a battle to the death. New talent had come in⁠—more than talent, positive genius. Maydorf held the cards close against his chest; his face was carved in stone. As though he realized what he was up against, Madden grew wary, but determined. These two fought it out, while Thorn and the boy trailed along, like noncombatants involved in a battle of the giants.

Presently Ah Kim entered with logs for the fire, and if the amazing picture on which his keen eyes lighted startled him he gave no sign. Madden ordered him to bring highballs, and as he set the glasses on the table Bob Eden noted with a secret thrill that the stomach of the detective was less than twelve inches from the long, capable hands of Shaky Phil. If the redoubtable Mr. Maydorf only knew⁠—

But Maydorf’s thoughts were elsewhere than on the Phillimore pearls. “Dealer⁠—one card,” he demanded.

The telephone rang out sharply in the room. Bob Eden’s heart missed a beat. He had forgotten that⁠—and now⁠—After the long wait he was finally to speak with his father⁠—while Shaky Phil Maydorf sat only a few feet away! He saw Madden staring at him, and he rose.

“For me, I guess,” he said carelessly. He tossed his cards on the table. “I’m out of it, anyhow.” Crossing the room to the telephone, he took down the receiver. “Hello. Hello, Dad. Is that you?”

“Aces and trays,” said Maydorf. “All mine?” Madden laid down a hand without looking at his opponent’s, and Shaky Phil gathered in another pot.

“Yes, Dad⁠—this is Bob,” Eden was saying. “I arrived all right⁠—stopping with Mr. Madden for a few days. Just wanted you to know where I was. Yes⁠—that’s all. Everything. I may call you in the morning. Have a good game? Too bad. Goodbye!”

Madden was on his feet, his face purple. “Wait a minute,” he cried.

“Just wanted Dad to know where I am,” Eden said brightly. He dropped back into his chair. “Whose deal is it, anyhow?”

Madden strangled a sentence in his throat, and once more the game was on. Eden was chuckling inwardly. More delay⁠—and not his fault this time. The joke was on P. J. Madden.

His third stack was melting rapidly away, and he reflected with apprehension that the night was young, and time of no importance on the desert, anyhow. “One more hand and I drop out,” he said firmly.

“One more hand and we all drop out,” barked Madden. Something seemed to have annoyed him.

“Let’s make it a good one, then,” said Maydorf. “The limit’s off, gentlemen.”

It was a good one, unexpectedly a contest between Maydorf and Bob Eden. Drawing with the faint hope of completing two pairs, the boy was thrilled to encounter four nines in his hand. Perhaps he should have noted that Maydorf was dealing, but he didn’t⁠—he bet heavily, and was finally called. Laying down his hand, he saw an evil smile on Shaky Phil’s face.

“Four queens,” remarked Maydorf, spreading them out with an expert gesture. “Always was lucky with the ladies. I think you gentlemen pay me.”

They did. Bob Eden contributed forty-seven dollars reluctantly. All on the expense account, however, he reflected.

Mr. Maydorf was in a not unaccountable good humour. “A very pleasant evening,” he remarked, as he put on his overcoat. “I’ll drop in again, if I may.”

“Good night,” snapped Madden.

Thorn took a flashlight from the desk. “I’ll see you to the gate,” he announced. Bob Eden smiled. A flashlight⁠—with a bright moon overhead.

“Mighty good of you,” the outsider said. “Good night, gentlemen, and thank you very much.” He was smiling grimly as he followed the secretary out.

Madden snatched up a cigar, and savagely bit the end from it. “Well?” he cried.

“Well,” said Eden calmly.

“You made a lot of progress with your father, didn’t you?”

The boy smiled. “What did you expect me to do? Spill the whole thing in front of that bird?”

“No⁠—but you needn’t have rung off so quick. I was going to get him out of the room. Now you can go over there and call your father again.”

“Nothing of the sort,” answered Eden. “He’s gone to bed, and I won’t disturb him till morning.”

Madden’s face purpled. “I insist. And my orders are usually obeyed.”

“Is that so?” remarked Eden. “Well, this is one that won’t be.”

Madden glared at him. “You young⁠—you⁠—er⁠—young⁠—”

“I know,” Eden said. “But this was all your fault. If you will insist on cluttering up the ranch with strangers you must take the consequences.”

“Who cluttered up the ranch?” Madden demanded. “I didn’t invite that poor fool here. Where the devil did Thorn pick him up, anyhow? You know, the secretary of a man like me is always besieged by a lot of four-flushers⁠—tip-hunters and the like. And Thorn’s an idiot sometimes.” The secretary entered and laid the flashlight on the desk. His employer regarded him with keen distaste. “Well, your little playmate certainly queered things,” he said.

Thorn shrugged. “I know. I’m sorry, chief. But I couldn’t help it. You saw how he horned in.”

“Your fault for knowing him. Who is he, anyhow?”

“Oh, he’s a broker, or something like that. I give you my word, chief, I never encouraged him. You know how those fellows are.”

“Well, you go out tomorrow and tie a can to him. Tell him I’m busy here and don’t want any visitors. Tell him for me that if he calls here again I’ll throw him out.”

“All right. I’ll go down to the doctor’s in the morning and let him know⁠—in a diplomatic way.”

“Diplomatic nothing,” snorted Madden. “Don’t waste diplomacy on a man like that. I won’t, if I see him again.”

“Well, gentlemen, I think I’ll turn in,” Eden remarked.

“Good night,” said Madden, and the boy went out.

In his bedroom he found Ah Kim engaged in lighting the fire. He closed the door carefully behind him.

“Well, Charlie, I’ve just been in a poker game.”

“A fact already noted by me,” smiled Chan.

“Shaky Phil has made a start on us, anyhow. He got forty-seven precious iron men this quiet evening.”

“Humbly suggest you be careful,” advised Chan.

“Humbly believe you’re right,” laughed Eden. “I was hoping you were in the offing when Thorn and our friend went to the gate.”

“Indeed I was,” remarked Chan. “But moonlight so fierce, near approach was not possible.”

“Well, I’m pretty sure of one thing after tonight,” Eden told him. “P. J. Madden never saw Shaky Phil before. Either that, or he’s the finest actor since Edwin Booth.”

“Thorn, however⁠—”

“Oh, Thorn knew him all right. But he wasn’t the least bit glad to see him. You know, Thorn’s whole manner suggested to me that Shaky Phil has something on him.”

“That might be possible,” agreed Chan. “Especially come to think of my latest discovery.”

“You’ve found something new, Charlie? What?”

“This evening, when Thorn haste to town in little car and I hear noisome snores of Madden, who sleep on bed, I make explicit search in secretary’s room.”

“Yes⁠—go on⁠—quick. We might be interrupted.”

“Under mountain of white shirts in Thorn’s bureau reposes⁠—what? Missing forty-five we call Bill Hart’s gun.”

“Good work! Thorn⁠—the little rat⁠—”

“Undubitably. Two chambers of that gun are quite unoccupied. Reflect on that.”

“I’m reflecting. Two empty chambers.”

“Humbly suggest you sleep now, gathering strength for what may be most excited tomorrow.” The little detective paused at the door. “Two bullets gone, who knows where?” he said in a low voice. “Answer is, we know where one went. Went crazy, landing in wall at spot now covered by desert picture.”

“And the other?” said Bob Eden thoughtfully.

“Other hit mark, I think. What mark? We watch and wait, and maybe we discover. Good night, with plenty happy dreams.”