Suddenly the door through which Thorn had gone opened suddenly behind them, and they swung quickly about. In the doorway, standing like a tower of granite in the gray clothes he always affected, was the man Bob Eden had last seen on the stairs descending from his father’s office, Madden, the great financier—P.J. himself.
Bob Eden’s first reaction was one of intense relief, as of a burden dropping from his shoulders with a “most delectable thud.” But almost immediately after came a feeling of disappointment. He was young, and he craved excitement. Here was the big desert mystery crashing about his ears, Madden alive and well, and all their fears and premonitions proving groundless. Just a tame handing over of the pearls—when Charlie came—and then back to the old rut again. He saw Will Holley smiling.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” Madden was saying. “I’m very glad to see you. Martin,” he added to his secretary, who had followed him in, “turn off that confounded racket. An orchestra, gentlemen—an orchestra in the ballroom of a hotel in Denver. Who says the day of miracles is past?” Thorn silenced the jazz; it died with a gurgle of protest. “Now,” inquired Madden, “which of you comes from Post Street?”
The boy stepped forward. “I am Bob Eden, Mr. Madden. Alexander Eden is my father. This is my friend, a neighbor of yours, Mr. Will Holley of the Eldorado Times. He very kindly drove me out here.”
“Ah, yes.” Madden’s manner was genial. He shook hands. “Draw up to the fire, both of you. Thorn—cigars, please.” With his own celebrated hands he placed chairs before the fireplace.
