“Thanks,” answered the editor. “I wonder why they gave out that story,” he mused.
“Simple to guess,” said Chan. “They are wiring New York office money be sent, please. How better to establish fact Madden is at desert ranch than to blaze same forth in newspapers. Printed word has ring of convincing truth.”
“I imagine you’re right,” nodded Holley. “By the way, Charlie, we thought we’d have a big surprise for you when we got back from the mine. But you beat us to it, after all.”
“By a hair’s width,” replied Chan. “Now that I have leisure I bow my head and do considerable blushing. Must admit I was plenty slow to grasp apparent fact. Only tonight light shone. To please this Victor, I hand over pearls. Madden is signing receipt—he writes slow and painful. Suddenly I think—he does all things slow and painful with that right hand. Why? I recall Delaney’s vest, built for left-handed man. Inwardly, out of sight, I gasp. To make a test, I snatch at pearls. Madden, to call him that, snatches, too. But guard is down—he snatches with left hand. He rips out pistol—left hand again. The fact is proved. I know.”
“Well, that was quick thinking,” Holley said.
Chan sadly shook his head. “Why not? Poor old brain must have been plenty rested. Not at work for many days. When I arrange these dishonest ones in chairs to wait for you, I have much time for bitter self-incriminations. Why have I experienced this stupid sinking spell? All time it was clear as desert morning. A man writes important letter, hides in blotter, goes away. Returning, he never touches same. Why? He did not return. Other
