“I’ll sit down just a moment,” Holley said. “I’m not stopping. I realize that Mr. Eden has some business with you, and I’ll not intrude. But before I go, Mr. Madden—”
“Yes,” said Madden sharply, biting the end from a cigar.
“I—I don’t suppose you remember me,” Holley continued.
Madden’s big hand poised with the lighted match. “I never forget a face. I’ve seen yours before. Was it in Eldorado?”
Holley shook his head. “No—it was twelve years ago—on Forty-fourth Street, New York. At”—Madden was watching him closely—“at a gambling house just east of Delmonico’s. One winter’s night—”
“Wait a minute,” cut in the millionaire. “Some people say I’m getting old—but listen to this. You came to me as a newspaper reporter, asking an interview. And I told you to get the hell out of there.”
“Splendid,” laughed Holley.
“Oh, the old memory isn’t so bad, eh? I remember perfectly. I used to spend many evenings in that place—until I discovered the game was fixed. Yes, I dropped a lot of spare change there. Why didn’t you tell me it was a crooked joint?”
Holley shrugged. “Well, your manner didn’t encourage confidences. But what I’m getting at, Mr. Madden—I’m still in the newspaper game, and an interview from you—”
“I never give’em,” snapped the millionaire.
“I’m sorry,” said Holley. “An old friend of mine runs a news bureau in New York, and it would be a big triumph
