desperate game was afoot here on Madden’s ranch, far out on the lonely desert? He began to wish himself out of it, back in town where the lights were bright and there was no constant undercurrent of hatred and suspicion and mystery.
He was still thinking in this vein when the clatter of a car sounded in the yard. Madden himself opened the door, and two of Eldorado’s prominent citizens entered.
“Come in, gentlemen,” Madden said, amiable with an effort. “Had a little accident out here.”
One of the two, a lean man with a brown, weather-beaten face, stepped forward.
“Howdy, Mr. Madden, I know you, but you don’t know me. I’m Constable Brackett, and this is our coroner, Doctor Simms. A murder, you said on the phone.”
“Well,” replied Madden, “I suppose you could call it that. But fortunately no one was hurt. No white man, I mean. Just my old Chink, Louie Wong.” Ah Kim had entered in time to hear this speech, and his eyes blazed for a moment as they rested on the callous face of the millionaire.
“Louie?” said the constable. He went over to the couch. “Why, poor old Louie. Harmless as they come, he was. Can’t figure who’d have anything against old Louie.”
The coroner, a brisk young man, also went to the couch and began an examination. Constable Brackett turned to Madden. “Now, we’ll make just as little trouble as we can, Mr. Madden,” he promised. Evidently he was much in awe of this great man. “But I don’t like this. It reflects on me. I got to ask a few questions. You see that, don’t you?”
