“Always want to see you tomorrow. Chan and I are coming over your way. Where can we find you?”
She told him she would be at the picture studio at one o’clock, and with a gay good-bye, disappeared down the brightly-lighted stretch of Colorado Street. Eden went in to a quiet night at the hotel.
After breakfast in the morning he recalled that an old college friend named Spike Bristol was reported in the class histories as living now in Pasadena. The telephone directory furnished Bristol’s address, and Eden set out to find him. His friend turned out to be one of the more decorative features of a bond office.
“Bond salesman, eh?” said Eden, when the greetings were over.
“Yes—it was either that or real estate,” replied Bristol. “I was undecided for some time. Finally I picked this.”
“Of course,” laughed Eden. “As any class history proves, gentlemen prefer bonds. How are you getting on?”
“Fine. All my old friends are buying from me.”
“Ah, now I know why you were so glad to see me.”
“Sure was. We have some very pretty first mortgage sixes—”
“I’ll bet you have—and you can keep them. I’m here on business, Spike—private business. Keep what I say under your hat.”
“Never wear one,” answered Spike brightly. “That’s the beauty of this climate—”
“You can’t sell me the climate, either. Spike, you know P.J. Madden, don’t you?”
“Well—we’re not very chummy. He hasn’t asked me
