“I’m looking for an old friend of mine—your secretary, Martin Thorn.”
Thorn rose and came round the table. “Oh, hello,” he said, with slight enthusiasm.
“You remember me, don’t you?” said the thin man. “McCallum—Henry McCallum. I met you at a dinner in New York a year ago.”
“Yes, of course,” answered Thorn. “Come in, won’t you? This is Mr. Madden.”
“A great honor,” said Shaky Phil.
“And Mr. Eden, of San Francisco.”
Eden rose, and faced Shaky Phil Maydorf. The man’s eyes without the glasses were barbed and cruel, like the desert foliage. For a long moment he stared insolently at the boy. Did he realize, Eden wondered, that his movements on the dock at San Francisco had not gone unnoticed? If he did, his nerve was excellent.
“Glad to know you, Mr. Eden,” he said.
“Mr. McCallum,” returned the boy gravely.
Maydorf turned again to Madden. “I hope I’m not intruding,” he remarked with a wan smile. “Fact is, I’m stopping down the road at Doctor Whitcomb’s—bronchitis, that’s my trouble. It’s lonesome as the devil round here, and when I heard Mr. Thorn was in the neighborhood, I couldn’t resist the temptation to drop in.”
“Glad you did,” Madden said, but his tone belied the words.
“Don’t let me interrupt your game,” Maydorf went on. “Poker, eh? Is this a private scrap, or can anybody get into it?”
“Take off your coat,” Madden responded sourly, “and sit up. Martin, give the gentleman a stack of chips.”
