a handsome adobe ranch house—an oasis on the bare plain. “Here we are at Madden’s,” Holley said. “By the way—have you got a gun?”
“Why, no,” Bob Eden replied. “I didn’t bring any. I thought that Charlie—”
“What’s that?”
“No matter. I’m unarmed.”
“So am I. Walk softly, son. By the way, you might open that gate, if you will.”
Bob Eden got out and, unlatching the gate, swung it open. When Holley had steered Horace Greeley inside the yard, Eden shut the gate behind him. The editor brought his car to a stop twenty feet away, and alighted.
The ranch house was a one-story structure, eloquent of the old Spanish days in California before Iowa came. Across the front ran a long low veranda, the roof of which sheltered four windows that were glowing warmly in the chill night. Holley and the boy crossed the tile floor of the porch, and came to a big front door, strong and forbidding.
Eden knocked loudly. There was a long wait. Finally the door opened a scant foot, and a pale face looked out. “What is it? What do you want?” inquired a querulous voice. From inside the room came the gay lilt of a fox-trot.
“I want to see Mr. Madden,” Bob Eden said. “Mr. P.J. Madden.”
“Who are you?”
“Never mind. I’ll tell Madden who I am. Is he here?”
The door went shut a few inches. “He’s here, but he isn’t seeing any one.”
