“I’m sure he has. In a money-belt about his waist. Get him here and I’ll order him to hand them over at once.”
“Fine—fine!” chuckled Madden. “If you’ll step into this room for a moment, Mr. Jordan, I’ll call you presently.”
“Yes, sir—of course,” agreed Victor, who was always polite to the rich. Madden led him by the inside passage to his bedroom. When the millionaire returned, his spirits were high.
“Bit of luck, this is,” he remarked. “And to think that blooming cook—” He went to the door leading on to the patio, and called loudly, “Ah Kim!”
The Chinese shuffled in. He looked at Madden blankly. “Wha’s matte, boss?” he inquired.
“I want to have a little talk with you.” Madden’s manner was genial, even kindly. “Where did you work before you came here?”
“Get’um woik all place, boss. Maybe lay sticks on gloun’foah lailload—”
“What town—what town did you work in last?”
“No got’um town, boss. Jus’outdoahs no place, laying sticks—”
“You mean you were laying ties for the railroad on the desert?”
“Yes, boss. You light now.”
Madden leaned back, and put his thumbs in the armholes of his vest. “Ah Kim—you’re a damned liar,” he said.
“Wha’s matte, boss?”
“I’ll show you what’s the matter. I don’t know what your game here has been, but it’s all over now.” Madden rose and stepped
