Sally. My life, perhaps—but by the bones of my honorable ancestors, I will not say’velly.’” He went out.
On his perch in the patio, opposite Eden’s window, Tony was busy with his own breakfast. The boy saw Chan approach the bird, and pause. “Hoo la ma,” cried the detective.
Tony looked up, and cocked his head on one side. “Hoo la ma,” he replied, in a shrill, harsh voice.
Chan went nearer, and began to talk rapidly in Chinese. Now and then he paused, and the bird replied amazingly with some phrase out of Chan’s speech. It was, Bob Eden reflected, as good as a show.
Suddenly from a door on the other side of the patio the man Thorn emerged. His pale face was clouded with anger.
“Here,” he cried loudly. “What the devil are you doing?”
“Solly, boss,” said the Chinese. “Tony nice litta fellah. Maybe I take’um to cook house.”
“You keep away from him,” Thorn ordered. “Get me—keep away from that bird.”
Chan shuffled off. For a long moment Thorn stood staring after him, anger and apprehension mingled in his look. As Bob Eden turned away, he was deep in thought. Was there something in Chan’s attitude, after all?
He hurried into the bath, which lay between his room and the vacant bedroom beyond. When he finally joined Madden, he thought he perceived the afterglow of that nervous fit still on the millionaire’s face.
“I’m sorry to be late,” he apologized. “But this desert air—”
