The company worked steadily until the lunch hour arrived. Then, scattered about the yard and the patio, they busied themselves with the generous sandwiches of the Oasis and with coffee served from thermos bottles. Suddenly Madden appeared in the doorway of the living-room. He was in a genial mood.
“Just a word of welcome,” he said. “Make yourselves at home.” He shook hands with the director and, moving about, spoke a few moments with each member of the company in turn. The girl named Diane held his attention for some time.
Presently he came to Eddie Boston. Casually Eden managed it so that he was near by during that interview.
“Boston’s the name,” said the actor. His hard face lighted. “I was hoping to meet you, Mr. Madden. I wanted to ask if you remember an old friend of mine—Jerry Delaney, of New York?”
Madden’s eyes narrowed, but the poker face triumphed.
“Delaney?” he repeated, vacantly.
“Yes—Jerry Delaney, who used to hang out at Jack McGuire’s place on Forty-fourth Street,” Boston persisted. “You know, he—”
“I don’t recall him,” said Madden. He was moving away. “I meet so many people.”
“Maybe you don’t want to recall him,” said Boston, and there was an odd note in his voice. “I can’t say I blame you either, sir. No, I guess you wouldn’t care much for Delaney. It was a crime what he did to you—”
Madden looked anxiously about. “What do you know about Delaney?” he asked in a low tone.
