He paused. “Then what?” Bob Eden asked breathlessly.
“Well, it’s a bedroom, an’he’s standin’there with the smokin’gun in his hand, lookin’fierce but frightened like. An’there’s somebody on the floor, t’other side o’the bed—all I kin see is his shoes. He turns toward the window, the gun still in his hand—”
“Who?” cried Bob Eden. “Who was it with the gun in his hand? You’re talking about Martin Thorn?”
“Thorn? You mean that little sneakin’secretary? No—I ain’t speakin’o’Thorn. I’m speakin’o’him—”
“Who?”
“The big boss. Madden. P.J. Madden himself.”
There was a moment of tense silence. “Good lord,” gasped Eden. “Madden? You mean to say that Madden—Why, it’s impossible. How did you know? Are you sure?”
“O’course I’m sure. I know Madden well enough. I seen him three years ago at the ranch. A big man, red-faced, thin gray hair—I couldn’t make no mistake about Madden. There he was standin’, the gun in his hand, an’he looks toward the window. I ducks back. An’at that minute this Thorn you’re speakin’of—he comes tearin’into the room.’What have you done now?’he says.’I've killed him,’says Madden,’that’s what I’ve done.’'You poor fool,’says Thorn.’It wasn’t necessary.’Madden throws down the gun.’Why not?’he wants to know.’I was afraid of him.’Thorn sneers.’You was always afraid o’him,’he says.’You dirty coward. That time in New York—’Madden gives him a look.’Shut up,’he says’Shut up an’fergit it. I was afraid o’him an’I killed him. Now git busy an’think what we better do.’”
