Blaze Nolan, otherwise James Blair Nolan, came slowly up the driveway from the big wrought-iron gates, where the moonlight filtered through the flowering eucalyptus trees. The air was redolent of many flowers spread over the spacious sloping lawns of this beautiful Beverly Hills estate.
Ahead of him loomed the huge pile of steel and masonry, which constituted the home of Kendall H. Marsh, capitalist, sheep king, “Take-a-Chance” Kendall, as he had been dubbed. Some said that Kendall didn’t take chances; that he played a cinch game. None would deny that he was cold-blooded in his dealings.
Nolan came up the broad steps and rang the bell, which was answered in a few moments by a dignified butler, who flooded the porch with light before opening the door.
“I’m here to see Marsh, ” said Nolan shortly.
“Yes, sir, ” nodded the butler. “The name, please?”
“Tell him it’s the man who—the man from Painted Valley. He’ll know who you mean.”
“Yes, sir. This way.”
He led Nolan through the big reception hall and into a wide room, where the dim lights picked out the magnificence of its appointments. He offered Nolan a chair and disappeared through a huge, carved oak door, which opened noiselessly. He was gone but a moment.
“This way, sir, ” he said. “Mr. Marsh is at liberty to see you.”
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