On his perch in the patio, opposite Eden's window, Tony was busy with his own breakfast. The boy saw Chan approach the bird, and pause. "Hoo la ma," cried the detective.
Tony looked up, and cocked his head on one side. "Hoo la ma," he replied, in a shrill, harsh voice.
Chan went nearer, and began to talk rapidly in Chinese. Now and then he paused, and the bird replied amazingly with some phrase out of Chan's speech. It was, Bob Eden reflected, as good as a show.
Suddenly from a door on the other side of the patio the man Thorn emerged. His pale face was clouded with anger.
"Here," he cried loudly. "What the devil are you doing?"
"Solly, boss," said the Chinese. "Tony nice litta fellah. Maybe I take 'um to cook house."
"You keep away from him," Thorn ordered. "Get me—keep away from that bird."
Chan shuffled off. For a long moment Thorn stood staring after him, anger and apprehension mingled in his look. As Bob Eden turned away, he was deep in thought. Was there something in Chan's attitude, after all?
He hurried into the bath, which lay between his room and the vacant bedroom beyond. When he finally joined Madden, he thought he perceived the afterglow of that nervous fit still on the millionaire's face.
"I'm sorry to be late," he apologized. "But this desert air—"
"I know," said Madden. "It's all right—we haven't lost any time. I've already put in that call for your father."
"Good idea," replied the boy, without any enthusiasm. "Called his office, I suppose?"
"Naturally."
Suddenly Eden remembered. This was Saturday morning, and unless it was raining in San Francisco, Alexander Eden was by now well on his way to the golf links at Burlingame. There he would remain until late tonight at least—perhaps over Sunday. Oh, for a bright day in the north!
Thorn came in, sedate and solemn in his blue serge suit, and looked with hungry eyes toward the table standing before the fire. They sat down to the breakfast prepared by the new servant, Ah Kim. A good breakfast it was, for Charlie Chan had not forgotten his early training in the Phillimore household. As it progressed, Madden mellowed a bit.
"I hope you weren't alarmed last night by Tony's screeching," he said presently.
"Well—for a minute," admitted Eden. "Of course, as soon as I found out the source of the racket, I felt better."
Madden nodded. "Tony's a colorless little beast, but he's had a scarlet past," he remarked.
"Like some of the rest of us," Eden suggested.
Madden looked at him keenly. "The bird was given me by a sea captain in the Australian trade. I brought him here to be company for my caretaker, Louie Wong."
"I thought your boy's name was Ah Kim," said Eden, innocently.
"Oh—this one. This isn't Wong. Louie was called suddenly to San Francisco the other day. This Ah Kim just happened to drift in most opportunely yesterday. He's merely a stop-gap until Louie comes back."
"You're lucky," Eden remarked. "Such good cooks as Ah Kim are rare."
"Oh, he'll do," Madden admitted. "When I come west to stay, I bring a staff with me. This is a rather unexpected visit."
"Your real headquarters out here are in Pasadena, I believe?" Eden inquired.
"Yes—I've got a house there, on Orange Grove Avenue. I just keep this place for an occasional week end—when my asthma threatens. And it's good to get away from the mob, now and then." The millionaire pushed back from the table, and looked at his watch. "Ought to hear from San Francisco any minute now," he added hopefully.
Eden glanced toward the telephone in a far corner. "Did you put the call in for my father, or just for the office?" he asked.
"Just for the office," Madden replied. "I figured that if he was out, we could leave a message."
Thorn came forward. "Chief, how about that interview for Holley?" he inquired.
"Oh, the devil!" Madden said. "Why did I let myself in for that?"
"I could bring the typewriter in here," began the secretary.
"No—we'll go to your room. Mr. Eden, if the telephone rings, please answer it."
The two went out. Ah Kim arrived on noiseless feet to clear away the breakfast. Eden lighted a cigarette, and dropped into a chair before the fire, which the blazing sun outside made rather superfluous.
Twenty minutes later, the telephone rang. Eden leaped to it, but before he reached the table where it stood, Madden was at his side. He had hoped to be alone for this ordeal, and sighed wearily. At the other end of the wire he was relieved to hear the cool, melodious voice of his father's well-chosen secretary.
"Hello," he said. "This is Bob Eden, at Madden's ranch down on the desert. And how are you this bright and shining morning?"
"What makes you think it's a bright and shining morning up here?" asked the girl.
Eden's heart sank. "Don't tell me it isn't. I'd be broken-hearted."
"Why?"
"Why! Because, while you're beautiful at any time, I like to think of you with the sunlight on your hair—"
Madden laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. "What the blazes do you think you're doing—making a date with a chorus girl? Get down to business."
"Excuse it, please," said Eden. "Miss Chase, is my father there?"
"No. This is Saturday, you know. Golf."
"Oh yes—of course. Then it is a nice day. Well, tell him to call me here if he comes in. Eldorado 76."
"Where is he?" demanded Madden eagerly.
"Out playing golf," the boy answered.
"Where? What links?"
Bob sighed. "I suppose he's at Burlingame," he said over the wire.
Then—oh, excellent young woman, thought the boy—the secretary answered: "Not today. He went with some friends to another links. He didn't say which."
"Thank you so much," Eden said. "Just leave the message on his desk, please." He hung up.
"Too bad," he remarked cheerfully. "Gone off to play golf somewhere, and nobody knows where."
Madden swore. "The old simpleton. Why doesn't he attend to his business—"
"Look here, Mr. Madden," Eden began.
"Golf, golf, golf," stormed Madden. "It's ruined more good men than whisky. I tell you, if I'd fooled round on golf links, I wouldn't be where I am today. If your father had any sense—"
"I've heard about enough," said Eden, rising.
Madden's manner changed suddenly. "I'm sorry," he said. "But this is annoying, you must admit. I wanted that necklace to start today."
"The day's young," Eden reminded him. "It may get off yet."
"I hope so," Madden frowned. "I'm not accustomed to this sort of dilly-dallying, I can tell you that."
His great head was tossing angrily as he went out. Bob Eden looked after him, thoughtfully. Madden, master of many millions, was putting what seemed an undue emphasis on a little pearl necklace. The boy wondered. His father was getting on in years—he was far from the New York markets. Had he made some glaring mistake in setting a value on that necklace? Was it, perhaps, worth a great deal more than he had asked, and was Madden fuming to get hold of it before the jeweler learned his error and perhaps called off the deal? Of course, Alexander Eden had given his word, but even so, Madden might fear a slip-up.
The