They turned down First Street. Bob Eden was pleasantly conscious of the slim lithe figure walking at his side. He had never before met a girl so modestly confident, so aware of life and unafraid of it. These desert towns were delightful.
A light was burning in the newspaper office, and under it a frail figure sat hunched over a typewriter. As they entered Will Holley rose, removing a green shade from his eyes. He was a thin tall man of thirty-five or so, with prematurely gray hair and wistful eyes.
“Hello, Paula,” he said.
“Hello, Will. See what I found at the Oasis Cafe.”
Holley smiled. “You would find him,” he said. “You’re the only one I know who can discover anything worth while in Eldorado. My boy, I don’t know who you are, but run away before this desert gets you.”
“I’ve a letter to you, Mr. Holley,” Eden said. He took it from his pocket. “It’s from an old friend of yours—Harry Fladgate.”
“Harry Fladgate,” repeated Holley softly. He read the letter through. “A voice from the past,” he said. “The past when we were boys together on the old Sun, in New York. Say—that was a newspaper!” He was silent for a moment, staring out at the desert night. “Harry says you’re here on business of some sort,” he added.
“Why, yes,” Eden replied. “I’ll tell you about it later. Just at present I want to hire a car to take me out to the Madden ranch.”
“You want to see P.J. himself?”
“Yes, just as soon as possible. He’s out there, isn’t he?”
