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Tangled Trails

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<h2 id="id01562" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER XXVIII</h2> <h5 id="id01563">THE FINGER OF SUSPICION POINTS</h5> The words of the preacher's little wife were like a bolt from a sunny heaven. Kirby could not accept them without reiteration. Never in the wildest dreams of the too vivid imagination of which his cousin had accused him had this possibility occurred to him. "Do you mean that this man—the younger one—is the husband of Phyllis Harriman?" His finger touched the reproduction of his cousin's photograph. "Yes. He's the man my husband married her to on the twenty-first of July." "You're quite sure of that?" "I ought to be," she answered rather dryly. "I was a witness." A young woman came up the walk from the street. She was a younger and more modern replica of Mrs. Rankin. The older lady introduced her. "Daughter, this is Mr. Lane, the gentleman who called on Father the other day while we were away. Mr. Lane, my daughter Ellen." Briskly she continued, showing her daughter the picture of James Cunningham, Junior. "Did you ever see this man, dear?" Ellen took one glance at it. "He's the man Father married the other day." "When?" the mother asked. "It was—let me see—about the last week in July. Why?" "Married to who?" asked Mrs. Rankin colloquially. "To that lovely Miss Harriman, of course." The old lady wheeled on Kirby triumphantly. "Are you satisfied now that I'm in my right mind?" she demanded smilingly. "Have to ask your pardon if I was rude," he said, meeting her smile. "But the fact is it was such a surprise I couldn't take it in." "This gentleman is the nephew of the Mr. Cunningham who was killed. He thought it was his uncle who had married Miss Harriman," the mother explained to Ellen. The girl turned to Kirby. "You know I've wondered about that myself. The society columns of the papers said it was the older Mr. Cunningham that was going to marry her. And I've seen, since your uncle's death, notices in the paper about his engagement to Miss Harriman. But I thought it must have been a mistake, since it was the younger Mr. Cunningham she did marry. Maybe the reporters got the two mixed. They do sometimes get things wrong in the papers, you know." This explanation was plausible, but Kirby happened to have inside information. He remembered the lovely photograph of the young woman in his uncle's rooms and the "Always, Phyllis" written across the lower part of it. He recalled the evasive comments of both James and his brother whenever any reference had been made to the relation between Miss Harriman and their uncle. No, Phyllis Harriman had been engaged to marry James Cunningham, Senior. He was sure enough of that. In point of fact he had seen at the district attorney's office a letter written by her to the older man, a letter which acknowledged that they were to be married in October. It had been one of a dozen papers turned over to the prosecutor's office for examination. Then she had jilted the land promoter for his nephew. Did his uncle know of the marriage of his nephew? That was something Kirby meant to find out if he could. The news he had just heard lit up avenues of thought as a searchlight throws a shaft into the darkness. It brought a new factor into the problem at which he was working. Roughly speaking, the cattleman knew his uncle, the habits of mind that guided him, the savage and relentless passions that swayed him. If the old man knew his favorite nephew and his fiancée had made a mock of him, he would move swiftly to a revenge that would hurt. The first impulse of his mind would be to strike James from his will. And even if his uncle had not yet discovered the secret marriage, he would soon have done so. It could not have been much longer concealed. This thing was as sure as any contingency in human life can be: if Cunningham had lived, his nephew James would never have inherited a cent of his millions. The older man had died in the nick of time for James. Already Kirby had heard a hint to this effect. It had been at a restaurant much affected by the business men of the city during the lunch hour. Two men had been passing his table on their way out. One, lowering his voice, had said to the other: "James Cunningham ought to give a medal to the fellow that shot his uncle. Didn't come a day too soon for him. Between you and me, J. C. has been speculating heavy and has been hit hard. He was about due to throw up the sponge. Luck for him, I'll say." It was on the way back from Golden, while he was being rushed through the golden fields of summer, that suspicion of his cousin hit Kirby like a blow in the face. Facts began to marshal themselves in his mind, an irresistible phalanx of them. James was the only man, except his brother, who benefited greatly by the death of his uncle. Not only was this true; the land promoter had to die soon to help James, just how soon Kirby meant to find out. Phyllis and a companion had been in the victim's apartment either at the time of his death or immediately afterward. That companion might have been James and not Jack. James had lost the sheets with the writing left by the Japanese valet Horikawa. The rage he had vented on his clerk might easily have been a blind. When James knew he was going to Golden to look up the marriage register, he had at once tried to forestall him by destroying the information. Kirby tried to fight off his suspicions. He wanted to believe in his cousin. In his own way he had been kind to him. He had gone on his bond to keep him out of prison after he had tried to conceal the fact of his existence at the coroner's inquest. But doubts began to gnaw at the Wyoming man's confidence in him. Had James befriended him merely to be in a position to keep closer tab on anything he discovered? Had he wanted to be close enough to throw him off the track with the wrong suggestions? The young cattleman was ashamed of himself for his doubts. But he could not down them. His discovery of the marriage changed the situation. It put his cousin James definitely into the list of the suspects. As soon as he reached town he called at the law offices of Irwin, Foster & Warren. The member of the firm he wanted to see was in. "I've been to Golden, Mr. Foster," he said, when he was alone with that gentleman. "Now I want to ask you a question." The lawyer looked at him, smiling warily. Both of the James Cunninghams had been clients of his. "I make my living giving legal advice," he said. "I don't want legal advice just now," Kirby answered. "I want to ask you if you know whether my uncle knew that James and Miss Harriman were married." Foster looked out of the window and drummed with his finger-tips on the desk. "Yes," he said at last. "He knew?" "Yes." "Do you know when he found out?" "I can answer that, too. He found out on the evening of the twenty-first—two days before his death. I told him—after dinner at the City Club." "You had just found it out yourself?" "That afternoon." "How did you decide that the James Cunningham mentioned in the license you saw was the younger one?" "By the age given." "How did my uncle take the news when you told him?" "He took it standing," the lawyer said. "Didn't make any fuss, but looked like the Day of Judgment for the man who had betrayed him." "What did he do?" "Wrote a note and called for a messenger to deliver it." "Who to?" Kirby asked colloquially. "I don't know. Probably the company has a record of all calls. If so, you can find the boy who delivered the message." "I'll get busy right away." Foster hesitated, then volunteered another piece of information. "I don't suppose you know that your uncle sent for me next day and told me to draft a new will for him and get it ready for his signature." "Did you do it?" "Yes. I handed it to him the afternoon of the day he was killed. It was found unsigned among his papers after his death. The old will still stands." "Leaving the property to James and Jack?" "Yes." "And the new will?" "Except for some bequests and ten thousand for a fountain at the city park, the whole fortune was to go to Jack." "So that if he had lived twenty-four hours longer James would have been disinherited." Foster looked at him out of eyes that told nothing of what he was thinking. "That's the situation exactly." Kirby made no further comment, nor did the lawyer. Within two hours the man from Twin Buttes had talked with the messenger boy, refreshed his memory with a tip, and learned that the message Cunningham had sent from the City Club had been addressed to his nephew Jack. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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