Thorn stopped. Beads of perspiration gleamed on his high white forehead.
“Somebody has to do it,” he complained. “That new boy’s too lazy. And if you let this refuse accumulate the place begins to look like a deserted picnic grounds.”
He nodded toward the basket, filled with old tin cans.
“Wanted, private secretary to bury rubbish back of barn,” smiled Eden. “A new sidelight on your profession, Thorn. Good idea to get them out of the way, at that,” he added, leaning over and taking up a can. “Especially this one, which I perceive lately held arsenic.”
“Arsenic?” repeated Thorn. He passed a dark coat sleeve across his brow. “Oh yes—we use a lot of that. Rats, you know.”
“Rats,” remarked Eden, with an odd inflection, restoring the can to its place.
Thorn emptied the contents of the basket into the hole, and began to fill it in. Eden, playing well his role of innocent bystander, watched him idly.
“There—that’s better,” said the secretary, smoothing the sand over the recent excavation. “You know—I’ve always had a passion for neatness.” He picked up the basket. “By the way,” he added, “if you don’t mind, I’d like to give you a little advice.”
“Glad to have it,” Eden replied, walking along beside him.
“I don’t know how anxious you people are to sell that necklace. But I’ve been with the chief fifteen years, and I can tell you he’s not the sort of man you can keep waiting with impunity. The first thing you know, young man, that deal for the pearls will be off.”
“I’m doing my best,” Eden told him. “Besides, Madden’
