“Up in the hills about seventeen miles from Eldorado. Petticoat Mine had three thousand citizens ten years ago, but there’s not a living soul there today. Just ruins, like Pompeii. I’ll have to show it to you—it’s mighty interesting.”
“That’s a promise,” Eden returned. “We’ll see you back on your dear old desert.”
“Warmest thanks for permitting close inspection of picture factory,” Chan remarked. “Always a glowing item on the scroll of memory.”
“It was fun for me,” answered the girl. “Sorry you must go.”
On the trolley bound for Los Angeles, Eden turned to the Chinese. “Don’t you ever get discouraged, Charlie?” he inquired.
“Not while work remains to do,” the detective replied. “This Miss Fitzgerald. Songbird, perhaps, but she will not have flown.”
“You’d better talk with her—” Eden began.
But Chan shook his head
“No, I will not accompany on that errand. Easy to see my presence brings embarrassed pause. I am hard to explain, like black eye.”
“Well, I shouldn’t have called you that,” smiled the boy.
“Go alone to see this woman. Inquire all she knows about the dead man, Delaney.”
Eden sighed. “I’ll do my best. But my once proud faith in myself is ebbing fast.”
At the stage door of the deserted theater Eden slipped a dollar into the hand of the doorman, and was permitted to step inside and examine the call-board. As he expected, the
