were probably right." She glanced at him quickly. "And it's my job to find out if you were. That old prospector—I'd give a good deal to meet him. Isn't there a chance that you may run across him again?"
"Just a chance," she replied.
"Well, if you do, would you mind getting in touch with me at once. If it's not asking too much—"
"Not at all," she told him. "I'll be glad to. Of course, the old man may be clear over in Arizona by now. When I last saw him he was moving fast!"
"All the more reason for wanting to find him," Eden said. "I—I wish I could explain. It isn't that I don't trust you, you know. But—it's not altogether my secret."
She nodded. "I understand. I don't want to know."
"You grow more wonderful every minute," he told her.
The minutes passed. After a time the car halted before Madden's ranch, and Bob Eden alighted. He stood looking into the girl's eyes—somehow they were like the eyes of Doctor Whitcomb—restful and comforting and kind. He smiled.
"You know," he said, "I may as well confess it—I've been sort of disliking Wilbur. And now it comes to me suddenly—if I really mean all that about loving my freedom—then Wilbur has done me the greatest service possible. I ought not to dislike him any more. I ought to thank him from the bottom of my heart."
"What in the world are you talking about?"
"Don't you understand? I've just realized that I'm up against the big temptation of my life. But I don't have to fight it. Wilbur has saved me. Good old Wilbur. Give him my love when next you write."
She threw her car into gear. "Don't you worry," she advised. "Even if there hadn't been a Wilbur, your freedom wouldn't have been in the slightest danger. I would have seen to that."
"Somehow, I don't care for that remark," Eden said. "It ought to reassure me, but as a matter of fact, I don't like it at all. Well, I owe you for another buggy ride. Sorry to see you go—it looks like a dull Sunday out here. Would you mind if I drifted into town this afternoon?"
"I probably wouldn't even know it," said the girl. "Good-bye."
Bob Eden's prediction about Sunday proved true—it was long and dull. At four in the afternoon he could stand it no longer. The blazing heat was dying, a restless wind had risen, and with the permission of Madden, who was still ill-humored and evidently restless too, he took the little car and sped toward the excitement of Eldorado.
Not much diversion there. In the window of the Desert Edge Hotel the proprietor waded grimly through an interminable Sunday paper. Main Street was hot and deserted. Leaving the car before the hotel, the boy went to Holley's office.
The editor came to the door to meet him. "Hello," he said. "I was hoping you'd come along. Kind of lonesome in the great open spaces this afternoon. By the way, there's a telegram here for you."
Eden took the yellow envelope and hurriedly tore it open. The message was from his father:
"I don't understand what it's all about but I am most disturbed. For the present I will follow your instructions. I am trusting you two utterly but I must remind you that it would be most embarrassing for me if sale fell through. Jordans are eager to consummate deal and Victor threatens to come down there any moment. Keep me advised."
"Huh," said Bob Eden. "That would be fine."
"What would?" asked Holley
"Victor threatens to come—the son of the woman who owns the pearls. All we need here to wreck the works is that amiable bonehead and his spats."
"What's new?" asked Holley, as they sat down.
"Several things," Bob Eden replied. "To start with the big tragedy, I'm out forty-seven dollars." He told of the poker game. "In addition, Mr. Thorn has been observed burying a can that once held arsenic. Furthermore, Charlie has found that missing pistol in Thorn's bureau—with two chambers empty."
Holley whistled. "Has he really? You know, I believe your friend Chan is going to put Thorn back of the bars before he's through."
"Perhaps," admitted Eden. "Got a long way to go, though. You can't convict a man of murder without a body to show for it."
"Oh—Chan will dig that up."
Eden shrugged. "Well, if he does, he can have all the credit. And do all the digging. Somehow, it's not the sort of thing that appeals to me. I like excitement, but I like it nice and neat. Heard from your interview?"
"Yes. It's to be released in New York tomorrow." The tired eyes of Will Holley brightened. "I was sitting here getting a thrill out of the idea when you came in." He pointed to a big scrapbook on his desk. "Some of the stories I wrote on the old Sun," he explained. "Not bad, if I do say it myself."
Bob Eden picked up the book, and turned the pages with interest. "I've been thinking of getting a job on a newspaper myself," he said.
Holley looked at him quickly. "Think twice," he advised. "You, with a good business waiting for you—what has the newspaper game to offer you? Great while you're young, maybe—great even now when the old order is changing and the picture paper is making a monkey out of a grand profession. But when you're old—" He got up and laid a hand on the boy's shoulder. "When you're old—and you're old at forty—then what? The copy desk, and some day the owner comes in, and sees a streak of gray in your hair, and he says, 'Throw that doddering fool out. I want young men here.' No, my boy—not the newspaper game. You and I must have a long talk."
They had it. It was five by the little clock on Holley's desk when the editor finally stood up, and closed his scrapbook. "Come on," he said. "I'm taking you to the Oasis for dinner."
Eden went gladly. At one of the tables opposite the narrow counter, Paula Wendell sat alone.
"Hello," she greeted them. "Come over here. I felt in an expansive mood tonight—had to have the prestige of a table."
They sat down opposite her. "Did you find the day as dull as you expected?" inquired the girl of Eden.
"Very dull by contrast, after you left me," he answered.
"Try the chicken," she advised. "Born and raised right here at home, and the desert hen is no weak sister. Not so bad, however."
They accepted her suggestion. When the generously filled platters were placed before them, Bob Eden squared away.
"Take to the lifeboats," he said. "I'm about to carve, and when I carve, it's a case of women and children first."
Holley stared down at his dinner. "Looks like the same old chicken," he sighed. "What wouldn't I give for a little home cooking."
"Ought to get married," smiled the girl. "Am I right, Mr. Eden?"
Eden shrugged. "I've known several poor fellows who got married hoping to enjoy a bit of home cooking. Now they're back in the restaurants, and the only difference is they've got the little woman along. Double the check and half the pleasure."
"Why all this cynicism?" asked Holley.
"Oh, Mr. Eden is very much opposed to marriage," the girl said. "He was telling me today."
"Just trying to save her," Eden explained. "By the way, do you know this Wilbur who's won her innocent, trusting heart?"
"Wilbur?" asked Holley blankly.
"He will persist in calling Jack out of his name," the girl said. "It's his disrespectful way of referring to my fiance."
Holley glanced at the ring. "No, I don't know him," he announced. "I certainly congratulate him, though."
"So do I," Eden returned. "On his nerve. However, I oughtn't to knock Wilbur. As I was saying only this noon—"
"Never mind," put in the girl. "Wake up, Will. What are you thinking about?"
Holley started. "I was thinking of a dinner I had once at Mouquin's," he replied. "Closed up, now, I hear. Gone—like all the other