On Sunday morning Bob Eden rose at what was, for him, an amazingly early hour. Various factors conspired to induce this strange phenomenon⁠—the desert sun, an extremely capable planet, filling his room with light, the roosters of P. J. Madden, loudly vocal in the dawn. At eight o’clock he was standing in the ranch-house yard, ready for whatever the day might bring forth.

Whatever it brought, the day was superb. Now the desert was at its best, the chill of night still lingering in the magic air. He looked out over an opal sea, at changing colours of sand and cloud and mountain-top that shamed by their brilliance those glittering showcases in the jewellery shop of Meek and Eden. Though it was the fashion of his age to pretend otherwise, he was not oblivious to beauty, and he set out for a stroll about the ranch with a feeling of awe in his heart.

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 fence.

“Hello,” she said. “Jump in. You act as though you were glad to see me.”

“Glad! Lady, you’re a lifesaver. Relations are sort of strained this morning at the old homestead. You’ll find it hard to believe, but P. J. Madden doesn’t love me.”

She let in the clutch. “The man’s mad,” she laughed.

“I’ll say he’s mad. Ever eat breakfast with a rattlesnake that’s had bad news?”

“Not yet. The company at the Oasis is mixed, but not so mixed as that. Well, what do you think of the view this morning? Ever see such colouring before?”

“Never. And it’s not out of a drugstore, either.”

“I’m talking about the desert. Look at those snow-capped peaks.”

“Lovely. But, if you don’t mind, I prefer to look closer. No doubt he’s told you you’re beautiful.”

“Who?”

“Wilbur, your fiancé.”

“His name is Jack. Don’t jump on a good man when he’s down.”

“Of course he’s a good man, or you wouldn’t have picked him.” They ploughed along the sandy road. “But even so⁠—look here, lady. Listen to a man of the world. Marriage is the last resort of feeble minds.”

“Think so?”

“I know it. Oh, I’ve given the matter some thought. I’ve had to. There’s my own case. Now and then I’ve met a girl whose eyes said, ‘Well, I might.’ But I’ve been cautious. Hold fast, my lad⁠—that’s my motto.”

“And you’ve held fast?”

“You bet. Glad of it, too. I’m free. I’m having a swell time. When evening comes, and the air’s full of zip and zowie, and the lights flicker round Union Square, I just reach for my hat. And who says, in a gentle, patient voice: ‘Where are you going, my dear? I’ll go with you’?”

“Nobody.”

“Not a living soul. It’s grand. And you⁠—your case is just like mine. Of course there are millions of girls who have nothing better to do than marriage. All right for them. But you⁠—why⁠—you’ve got a wonderful job. The desert, the hills, the canyons⁠—and you’re willing to give all that up for a gas-range in the rear room of an apartment?”

“Perhaps we can afford a maid.”

“Lots of people can⁠—but where to get one nowadays? I’m warning you⁠—think it over well. You’re having a great time now⁠—that will end with marriage. Mending Wilbur’s socks⁠—”

“I tell you his name is Jack.”

“What of it? He’ll be just as hard on the socks. I hate to think of a girl like you, tied down somewhere⁠—”

“There’s a lot in what you say,” Paula Wendell admitted.

“I’ve only scratched the surface,” Eden assured her.

The girl steered her car off the road through an open gate. Eden saw a huge, rambling ranch-house surrounded by a group of tiny cottages. “Here we are at Doctor Whitcomb’s,” remarked Paula Wendell. “Wonderful person, the doctor. I want you two to meet.”

She led the way through a screen-door into a large living-room, not so beautifully furnished as Madden’s, but bespeaking even greater comfort. A grey-haired woman was rocking contentedly near a window. Her face was kindly, her eyes calm and comforting. “Hello, doctor,” said the girl. “I’ve brought someone to call on you.”

The woman rose, and her smile seemed to fill the room. “Hello, young man,” she said, and took Bob Eden’s hand.

“You⁠—you’re the doctor?” he stammered.

“Sure am,” the woman replied. “But you don’t need me. You’re all right.”

“So are you,” he answered. “I can see that.”

“Fifty-five years old,” returned the doctor, “but I can still get a kick out of that kind of talk from a nice young man. Sit down. The place is yours. Where are you staying?”

“I’m down the road at Madden’s.”

“Oh, yes⁠—I heard he was here. Not much of a neighbour, this P. J. Madden. I’ve called on him occasionally, but he’s never come to see me. Standoffish⁠—and that sort of thing doesn’t go in the desert. We’re all friends here.”

“You’ve been a friend to a good many,” said Paula Wendell.

“Why not?” shrugged Doctor Whitcomb. “What’s life for, if not to help one another? I’ve done my best⁠—I only wish it had been more.”

Bob Eden felt suddenly humble in this woman’s presence.

“Come on⁠—I’ll show you round my place,” invited the doctor. “I’ve made the desert bloom⁠—put that on my tombstone. You should have seen this neighbourhood when I came. Just a rifle and a cat⁠—that’s all I had at first. And the cat wouldn’t stay. My first house here I built with my own hands. Five miles to Eldorado⁠—I walked in and back every day. Mr. Ford hadn’t been heard of then.”

She led the way into the yard, in and out among the little cottages. Tired faces brightened at her approach, weary eyes gleamed with sudden hope.

“They’ve come to her from all over the country,” Paula Wendell said. “Brokenhearted, sick, discouraged. And she’s given them new life⁠—”

“Nonsense,” cried the doctor. “I’ve just been friendly. It’s a pretty hard world. Being friendly⁠—that works wonders.”

In the doorway of one of the cottages they came upon Martin Thorn, deep in converse with Shaky Phil Maydorf. Even Maydorf mellowed during a few words with the doctor.

Finally, when they reluctantly left, Doctor Whitcomb followed them to the gate. “Come often,” she said. “You will, won’t you?”

“I hope to,” answered Bob Eden. He held her great rough hand a moment. “You know⁠—I’m beginning to sense the beauty of the desert,” he added.

The doctor smiled. “The desert is old and weary and wise,” she said. “There’s beauty in that, if you can see it. Not everybody can. The latchstring’s always out at Doctor Whitcomb’s. Remember, boy.”

Paula Wendell swung the car about, and in silence they headed home.

“I feel as though I’d been out to old Aunt Mary’s,” said Eden presently. “I sort of expected her to give me a cookie when I left.”

“She’s a wonderful woman,” said the girl softly. “I ought to know. It was the light in her window I saw my first night on the desert. And the light in her eyes⁠—I shall never forget. All the great people are not in the cities.”

They rode on. About them the desert blazed stark and empty in the midday heat; a thin haze cloaked the distant dunes and the faraway slopes of the hills. Bob Eden’s mind returned to the strange problems that confronted him. “You’ve never asked me why I’m here,” he remarked.

“I know,” the girl answered. “I felt that pretty soon you’d realize we’re all friends on the desert⁠—and tell me.”

“I want to⁠—some day. Just at present⁠—well, I can’t. But going back to that night you first visited Madden’s ranch⁠—you felt that something was wrong there?”

“I did.”

“Well, I can tell you this much⁠—you were probably right.” She glanced at him quickly. “And it’s my job to find out if you were. That old prospector⁠—I’d give a good deal to meet him. Isn’t there a chance that you may run across him again?”

“Just a chance,” she replied.

“Well, if you do, would you mind getting in touch with me at once? If it’s not asking too much⁠—”

“Not at all,” she told him. “I’ll be glad to. Of course, the old man may be clear over in Arizona by now. When I last saw him he was moving fast!”

“All the more reason for wanting to find him,” Eden said. “I⁠—I wish I could explain. It isn’t that I don’t trust you, you know. But⁠—it’s not altogether my secret.”

She nodded. “I understand. I don’t want to know.”

“You grow more wonderful every minute,” he told her.

The minutes passed. After a time the car halted before Madden’s ranch, and Bob Eden alighted. He stood looking into the girl’s eyes⁠—somehow they were like the eyes of Doctor Whitcomb⁠—restful and comforting and kind. He smiled.

“You know,” he said, “I may as well confess it⁠—I’ve been sort of disliking Wilbur. And now it comes to me suddenly⁠—if I really mean all that about loving my freedom⁠—then Wilbur has done me the greatest service possible. I ought not to dislike him any more. I ought to thank him from the bottom of my heart.”

“What in the world are you talking about?”

“Don’t you understand? I’ve just realized that I’m up against the big temptation of my life. But I don’t have to fight it. Wilbur has saved me. Good old Wilbur. Give him my love when next you write.”

She threw her car into gear. “Don’t you worry,” she advised. “Even if there hadn’t been a Wilbur, your freedom wouldn’t have been in the slightest danger. I would have seen to that.”

“Somehow, I don’t care for that remark,” Eden said. “It ought to reassure me, but as a matter of fact I don’t like it at all. Well, I owe you for another buggy ride. Sorry to see you go⁠—it looks like a dull Sunday out here. Would you mind if I drifted into town this afternoon?”

“I probably wouldn’t even know it,” said the girl. “Goodbye.”

Bob Eden’s prediction about Sunday proved true⁠—it was long and dull. At four in the afternoon he could stand it no longer. The blazing heat was dying, a restless wind had risen, and with the permission of Madden, who was still ill-humoured and evidently restless too, he took the little car and sped toward the excitement of Eldorado.

Not much diversion there. In the window of the Desert Edge Hotel the proprietor waded grimly through an interminable Sunday paper. Main Street was hot and deserted. Leaving the car before the hotel, the boy went to Holley’s office.

The editor came to the door to meet him. “Hello,” he said. “I was hoping you’d come along. Kind of lonesome in the great open spaces this afternoon. By the way, there’s a telegram here for you.”

Eden took the yellow envelope and hurriedly tore it open. The message was from his father:

I don’t understand what it’s all about but I am most disturbed. For the present I will follow your instructions. I am trusting you two utterly but I must remind you that it would be most embarrassing for me if sale fell through. Jordans are eager to consummate deal and Victor threatens to come down there any moment. Keep me advised.

“Huh,” said Bob Eden. “That would be fine.”

“What would?” asked Holley.

“Victor threatens to come⁠—the son of the woman who owns the pearls. All we need here to wreck the works is that amiable bonehead and his spats.”

“What’s new?” asked Holley, as they sat down.

“Several things,” Bob Eden replied. “To start with the big tragedy, I’m out forty-seven dollars.” He told of the poker game. “In addition, Mr. Thorn has been observed burying a can that once held arsenic. Furthermore, Charlie has found that missing pistol in Thorn’s bureau⁠—with two chambers empty.”

Holley whistled. “Has he really? You know, I believe your friend Chan is going to put Thorn back of the bars before he’s through.”

“Perhaps,” admitted Eden. “Got a long way to go, though. You can’t convict a man of murder without a body to show for it.”

“Oh⁠—Chan will dig that up.”

Eden shrugged. “Well, if he does he can have all the credit. And do all the digging. Somehow, it’s not the sort of thing that appeals to me. I like excitement, but I like it nice and neat. Heard from your interview?”

“Yes. It’s to be released in New York tomorrow.” The tired eyes of Will Holley brightened. “I was sitting here getting a thrill out of the idea when you came in.” He pointed to a big scrapbook on his desk. “Some of the stories I wrote on the old Sun,” he explained. “Not bad, if I do say it myself.”

Bob Eden picked up the book, and turned the pages with interest. “I’ve been thinking of getting a job on a newspaper myself,” he said.

Holley looked at him quickly. “Think twice,” he advised. “You, with a good business waiting for you⁠—what has the newspaper game to offer you? Great while you’re young, maybe⁠—great even now when the old order is changing and the picture paper is making a monkey out of a grand profession. But when you’re old⁠—” He got up and laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “When you’re old⁠—and you’re old at forty⁠—then what? The copy desk, and some day the owner comes in, and sees a streak of grey in your hair, and he says: ‘Throw that doddering fool out. I want young men here.’ No, my boy⁠—not the newspaper game. You and I must have a long talk.”

They had it. It was five by the little clock on Holley’s desk when the editor finally stood up, and closed his scrapbook. “Come on,” he said. “I’m taking you to the Oasis for dinner.”

Eden went gladly. At one of the tables opposite the narrow counter Paula Wendell sat alone.

“Hello,” she greeted them. “Come over here. I felt in an expansive mood tonight⁠—had to have the prestige of a table.”

They sat down opposite her. “Did you find the day as dull as you expected?” inquired the girl of Eden.

“Very dull by contrast, after you left me,” he answered.

“Try the chicken,” she advised. “Born and raised right here at home, and the desert hen is no weak sister. Not so bad, however.”

They accepted her suggestion. When the generously filled platters were placed before them Bob Eden squared his shoulders.

“Take to the lifeboats,” he said. “I’m about to carve, and when I carve it’s a case of women and children first.”

Holley stared down at his dinner. “Looks like the same old chicken,” he sighed. “What wouldn’t I give for a little home cooking?”

“Ought to get married,” smiled the girl. “Am I right, Mr. Eden?”

Eden shrugged. “I’ve known several poor fellows who got married hoping to enjoy a bit of home cooking. Now they’re back in the restaurants, and the only difference is they’ve got the little woman along. Double the check and half the pleasure.”

“Why all this cynicism?” asked Holley.

“Oh, Mr. Eden is very much opposed to marriage,” the girl said. “He was telling me today.”

“Just trying to save her,” Eden explained. “By the way, do you know this Wilbur who’s won her innocent, trusting heart?”

“Wilbur?” asked Holley blankly.

“He will persist in calling Jack out of his name,” the girl said. “It’s his disrespectful way of referring to my fiancé.”

Holley glanced at the ring. “No, I don’t know him,” he announced. “I certainly congratulate him, though.”

“So do I,” Eden returned. “On his nerve. However, I oughtn’t to knock Wilbur. As I was saying only this noon⁠—”

“Never mind,” put in the girl. “Wake up, Will. What are you thinking about?”

Holley started. “I was thinking of a dinner I had once at Mouquin’s,” he replied. “Closed up now, I hear. Gone⁠—like all the other old landmarks⁠—the happy stations on the five o’clock cocktail route. You know, I wonder sometimes if I’d like New York today⁠—”

He talked of the old Manhattan he had known. In what seemed to Bob Eden no time at all the dinner hour had passed. As they were standing at the cashier’s desk the boy noted, for the first time, a stranger lighting a cigar nearby. He was, from his dress, no native⁠—a small, studious-looking man with piercing eyes.

“Good evening, neighbour,” Holley said.

“How are you?” answered the stranger.

“Come down to look us over?” the editor asked, thinking of his next issue.

“Dropped in for a call on the kangaroo-rat,” replied the man. “I understand there’s a local variety whose tail measures three millimetres longer than any hitherto recorded.”

“Oh,” returned Holley. “One of those fellows, eh? We get them all⁠—beetle men and butterfly men, mouse and gopher men. Drop round to the office of the Times some day and we’ll have a chat.”

“Delighted,” said the little naturalist.

“Well, look who’s here,” cried Holley suddenly. Bob Eden turned, and saw entering the door of the Oasis a thin little Chinese who seemed as old as the desert. His face was the colour of a beloved meerschaum pipe, his eyes beady and bright. “Louie Wong,” Holley explained. “Back from San Francisco, eh, Louie?”

“Hello, boss,” said Louie, in a high, shrill voice. “My come back.”

“Didn’t you like it up there?” Holley persisted.

“San Flancisco no good,” answered Louie. “All time lain dlop on nose. My like ’um heah.”

“Going back to Madden’s, eh?” Holley inquired. Louie nodded. “Well, here’s a bit of luck for you, Louie. Mr. Eden is going out to the ranch presently, and you can ride with him.”

“Of course,” assented Eden.

“Catch ’um hot tea. You wait jus’ litta time, boss,” said Louie, sitting down at the counter.

“We’ll be down in front of the hotel,” Holley told him. The three of them went out. The little naturalist followed, and slipped by them, disappearing in the night.

Neither Holley nor Eden spoke. When they reached the hotel they stopped.

“I’m leaving you now,” Paula Wendell said. “I have some letters to write.”

“Ah, yes,” Eden remarked. “Well⁠—don’t forget. My love to Wilbur.”

“These are business letters,” she answered severely. “Good night.”

The girl went inside. “So Louie’s back,” Eden said. “That makes a pretty situation.”

“What’s the matter?” Holley said. “Louie may have a lot to tell.”

“Perhaps. But when he shows up at his old job⁠—what about Charlie? He’ll be kicked out, and I’ll be alone on the big scene. Somehow, I don’t feel I know my lines.”

“I never thought of that,” replied the editor. “However, there’s plenty of work for two boys out there when Madden’s in residence. I imagine he’ll keep them both. And what a chance for Charlie to pump old Louie dry. You and I could ask him questions from now until doomsday and never learn a thing. But Charlie⁠—that’s another matter.”

They waited, and presently Louie Wong came shuffling down the street, a cheap little suitcase in one hand and a full paper bag in the other.

“What you got there, Louie?” Holley asked. He examined the bag. “Bananas, eh?”

“Tony like ’um banana,” the old man explained. “Pleasant foah Tony.”

Eden and Holley looked at each other. “Louie,” said the editor gently, “poor Tony’s dead.”

Anyone who believes the Chinese face is always expressionless should have seen Louie’s then. A look of mingled pain and anger contorted it, and he burst at once into a flood of language that needed no translator. It was profane and terrifying.

“Poor old Louie,” Holley said. “He’s reviling the street, as they say in China.”

“Do you suppose he knows?” asked Eden. “That Tony was murdered, I mean.”

“Search me,” answered Holley. “It certainly looks that way, doesn’t it?” Still loudly vocal, Louie Wong climbed into the back seat of the car, and Bob Eden took his place at the wheel. “Watch your step, boy,” advised Holley. “See you soon. Good night.”

Bob Eden started the car, and with old Louie Wong set out on the strangest ride of his life.

The moon had not yet risen; the stars, wan and far-off and unfriendly, were devoid of light. They climbed between the mountains, and that mammoth doorway led seemingly to a black and threatening inferno that Eden could sense but could not see. Down the rocky road and on to the sandy floor of the desert they crept along; out of the dark beside the way gleamed little yellow eyes, flashing hatefully for a moment, then vanishing forever. Like the ugly ghosts of trees that had died the Joshuas writhed in agony, casting deformed, appealing arms aloft. And constantly as they rode on muttered the weird voice of the old Chinese in the back seat, mourning the passing of his friend, the death of Tony.

Bob Eden’s nerves were steady, but he was glad when the lights of Madden’s ranch shone with a friendly glow ahead. He left the car in the road and went to open the gate. A stray twig was caught in the latch, but finally he got it open, and, returning to the car, swung it into the yard. With a feeling of deep relief, he swept up before the barn. Charlie Chan was waiting in the glow of the headlights.

“Hello, Ah Kim,” Eden called. “Got a little playmate for you in the back seat. Louie Wong has come back to his desert.” He leaped to the ground. All was silence in the rear of the car. “Come on, Louie,” he cried. “Here we are.”

He stopped, a sudden thrill of horror in his heart. In the dim light he saw that Louie had slipped to his knees, and that his head hung limply over the door at the left.

“My God!” cried Eden.

“Wait,” said Charlie Chan. “I get flashlight.”

He went, while Bob Eden stood fixed and frightened in his tracks. Quickly the efficient Charlie returned, and made a hasty examination with the light. Bob Eden saw a gash in the side of Louie’s old coat⁠—a gash that was bordered with something wet and dark.

“Stabbed in the side,” said Charlie calmly. “Dead⁠—like Tony.”

“Dead⁠—when?” gasped Eden. “In the minute I left the car at the gate. Why⁠—it’s impossible⁠—”

Out of the shadows came Martin Thorn, his pale face gleaming in the dusk. “What’s all this?” he asked. “Why⁠—it’s Louie. What’s happened to Louie?”

He bent over the door of the car, and the busy flashlight in the hand of Charlie Chan shone for a moment on his back. Across the dark coat was a long tear⁠—a tear such as might have been made in the coat of one climbing hurriedly through a barbed-wire fence.

“This is terrible,” Thorn said. “Just a minute⁠—I must get Mr. Madden.”

He ran to the house, and Bob Eden stood with Charlie Chan by the body of Louie Wong.

“Charlie,” whispered the boy huskily, “you saw that rip in Thorn’s coat?”

“Most certainly,” answered Chan. “I observed it. What did I quote to you this morning? Old saying of Chinese. ‘He who rides on tiger cannot dismount.’ ”