red, white and blue the chips were, and he caressed them with loving hands. He was Madden, the plunger, the gambler with railroads and steel mills and the fortunes of little nations abroad, the Madden who, after he had played all day in Wall Street, was wont to seek the roulette wheels on Forty-fourth Street at night.
“Aces,” he cried. “Three of them. What have you got, Eden?”
“Apoplexy,” remarked Eden, tossing aside his hand. “Right here and now I offer to sell my chances in this game for a canceled postage stamp, or what have you?”
“Good experience for you,” Madden replied. “Martin—it’s your deal.”
A knock sounded suddenly on the door, loud and clear. Bob Eden felt a strange sinking of the heart. Out of the desert dark, out of the vast uninhabited wastes of the world, some one spoke and demanded to come in.
“Who can that be?” Madden frowned.
“Police,” suggested Eden, hopefully. “The joint is pinched.” No such luck, he reflected.
Thorn was dealing, and Madden himself went to the door and swung it open. From where he sat Eden had a clear view of the dark desert—and of the man who stood in the light. A thin man in an overcoat, a man he had seen first in a San Francisco pier-shed, and later in front of the Desert Edge Hotel. Shaky Phil Maydorf himself, but now without the dark glasses hiding his eyes.
“Good evening,” said Maydorf, and his voice, too, was thin and cold. “This is Mr. Madden’s ranch, I believe?”
“I’m Madden. What can I do for you?”
