City optimist, deserted now. “By the way,” added the boy, “this thing you think has happened at the ranch—it may have occurred last Wednesday night?”
“You have fondly feeling for Wednesday night?” asked Chan. “Why?”
Briefly Bob Eden related Paula Wendell’s story of that night—Thorn’s obvious excitement when he met her at the door, his insistence that Madden could not speak to her, and most important of all, the little prospector with the black beard whom the girl saw in the yard. Chan listened with interest.
“Now you talk,” he commented. “Here is one fine new clue for us. He may be most important, that black-bearded one. A desert rat, I think. The young woman goes much about this country? Am I correct?”
“Yes, she does.”
“She can retain secrets, maybe?”
“You bet—this girl can.”
“Don’t trust her. We talk all over place we may get sorry, after while. However, venture so far as to ask please that she keep her pretty eyes open for that black-bearded rat. Who knows. Maybe he is vital link in our chain.” They were approaching the little oasis Madden had set on the desert’s dusty face. “Go in now,” Chan continued, “and act innocent like very new baby. When you talk with father over telephone, you will find he is prepared. I have sent him telegraph.”
“You have?” said Eden. “So did I. I sent him a couple of them.”
“Then he is all prepared. Among other matters, I presumed to remind him voice coming over wire is often grasped by others in room as well as him who reclines at telephone.”
