the Phillimore necklace. Chan took it and placed it in the hand of P.J. Madden.
“Fully aware you wanted it in New York,” he remarked, “but you will perform vast kindness to accept it here. I have carried it to outside limit of present endurance. Receipt at your convenience, thank you.”
Madden smiled. “All right, I’ll take it.” He put the necklace in his pocket. “You’re Mr. Chan, I imagine. Mr. Eden was telling me about you on the way down from the mine. I’m mighty glad you’ve been here.”
“Happy to serve,” bowed Chan.
The sheriff turned. “There you are, sir. The charge, I guess, is attempted theft—”
“And a lot of other things,” Madden added, “including assault with intent to kill.” He indicated his limp arm. “I’ll run over my story as quickly as I can—but I’ll do it sitting down.” He went to his desk. “I’m a little weak—I’ve been having a rough time of it. You know in a general way what has happened, but you don’t know the background, the history, of this affair. I’ll have to go back—back to a gambling house on Forty-fourth Street, New York. Are you familiar with New York gamblers and their ways, Sheriff?”
“Been to New York just once,” said the sheriff. “Didn’t like it”
“No, I don’t imagine you would,” replied Madden. He looked about. “Where are my cigars? Ah—here. Thanks, Delaney—you left me a couple, didn’t you? Well, Sheriff, in order that you may understand what’s been going on here, I must tell you about a favorite stunt of shady gamblers and confidence men in New York—a stunt that was flourishing there twelve or fifteen years ago.
