boys, Shaky Phil and”—he nodded at Gamble—“his brother who is known to the police as the professor, were the brains of the particular gang at McGuire’s. They must long ago have conceived the plan of having Delaney impersonate me some where, some time. They could do nothing without the aid of my secretary, Thorn, but they evidently found him willing. Finally they hit on the desert as the proper locale for the enterprise. It was an excellent selection. I come here rarely; meet few people when I do come. Once they could get me here alone, without my family, it was a simple matter. All they had to do was put me out of the way, and then P.J. Madden appears with his secretary, who is better known locally than he is—no one is going to dream of questioning his identity, particularly as he looks just like his pictures.”
Madden puffed thoughtfully on his cigar. "I’ve been expecting some such move for years. I feared no man in the world—except Delaney. The possibilities of the harm he might do me were enormous. Once I saw him in a restaurant, studying me. Well—they had a long wait, but their kind is patient. Two weeks ago I came here with Thorn, and the minute I got here I sensed there was something in the air. A week ago last Wednesday night I was sitting here writing a letter to my daughter Evelyn—it’s probably still between the leaves of this blotter where I put it when I heard Thorn cry out sharply from his bedroom.’Come quick, Chief,’he called. He was typing letters for me, and I couldn’t imagine what had happened. I rose and went to his room—and there he was, with an old gun of mine—a gun Bill Hart had given me—in his fist.’Put up your hands,’he said. Some one entered from the patio. It was Delaney.
