“The gate was open, and I drove into the yard. The lights of my car flashed suddenly on the barn door, and I saw a bent old man with a black beard and a pack on his back—evidently old-time prospector such as one meets occasionally, even today, in this desert country. It was his expression that startled me. He stood like a frightened rabbit in the spotlight, then darted away. I knocked at the ranch house door. There was a long delay, then finally a man came, a pale, excited-looking man—Madden’s secretary, Thorn, he said he was. I give you my word—Will’s heard this before—he was trembling all over. I told him my business with Madden, and he was very rude. He informed me that I positively could not see the great P.J.’Come back in a week,’he said, over and over. I argued and pleaded—and he shut the door in my face.”
“You couldn’t see Madden,” repeated Bob Eden slowly. “Anything else?”
“Not much. I drove back to town. A short distance down the road my lights picked up the little old prospector again. But when I got to where I thought he was, he’d disappeared utterly. I didn’t investigate—I just stepped on the gas. My love for the desert isn’t so keen after dark.”
Bob Eden took out a cigarette. “I’m awfully obliged,” he said. “Mr. Holley, I must get out to Madden’s at once. If you’ll direct me to a garage—”
“I’ll do nothing of the sort,” Holley replied. “An old flivver that answers to the name of Horace Greeley happens to be among my possessions at the moment, and I’m going to drive you out.”
“I couldn’t think of taking you away from your work.”
