fortune, and I want it, badly. Please hurry and close with him before he leaves town.”
Again the door opened at the secretary’s touch. “Mr. Madden, of New York,” said the girl.
“Yes,” said Eden. “We’ll see him at once.” He turned to his old friend. “I asked him to come here this morning and meet you. Now take my advice and don’t be too eager. We may be able to boost him a bit, though I doubt it. He’s a hard man, Sally, a hard man. The newspaper stories about him are only too true.”
He broke off suddenly, for the hard man he spoke of stood upon his rug. P.J. himself, the great Madden, the hero of a thousand Wall Street battles, six feet and over and looming like a tower of granite in the gray clothes he always affected. His cold blue eyes swept the room like an Arctic blast.
“Ah, Mr. Madden, come in,” said Eden, rising. Madden advanced farther into the room, and after him came a tall languid girl in expensive furs and a lean, precise-looking man in a dark blue suit.
“Madame Jordan, this is Mr. Madden, of whom we have just been speaking,” Eden said.
“Madame Jordan,” repeated Madden, bowing slightly. He had dealt so much in steel it had got somehow into his voice. “I’ve brought along my daughter Evelyn, and my secretary, Martin Thorn.”
“Charmed, I’m sure,” Eden answered. He stood for a moment gazing at this interesting group that had invaded his quiet office—the famous financier, cool, competent, conscious of his power, the slender haughty girl upon whom, it was reported, Madden lavished all the affection of his later years, the thin intense secretary, subserviently
