to Eldorado. The secretary stood there in his gloomy clothes, a black slouch hat accentuating the paleness of his face. As Eden entered, what was obviously a serious conversation between Thorn and the millionaire came to a sudden halt.
“Ah, good evening,” said Eden. “Not leaving us, Mr. Thorn?”
“Business in town,” returned Thorn. “Well, Chief, I’ll go along.”
Again the telephone rang. Madden leaped to it. For a moment he listened and history repeated itself on his face. “Bad news all the time,” Eden thought.
Madden put his great hand over the mouthpiece, and spoke to his secretary. “It’s that old bore down the road, Doctor Whitcomb,” he announced, and Eden felt a flash of hot resentment at this characterization. “She wants to see me this evening—says she has something very important to tell me.”
“Say you’re busy,” suggested Thorn.
“I’m sorry, Doctor,” Madden began over the phone, “but I am very much occupied—”
He stopped, evidently interrupted by a flood of conversation. Again he put his hand over the transmitter. “She insists, confound it,” he complained.
“Well, you’ll have to see her then,” said Thorn.
“All right, Doctor,” Madden capitulated. “Come about eight.”
Thorn went out, and the big car roared off toward the road and Evelyn Madden’s train. Mr. Gamble entered, refreshed and ready with a few apt quotations. Eden amused himself with the radio.
At the usual hour, much to Eden’s surprise, they dined.
