it havin' dizzy spells. Sorry you're hurt,
old man. I'll trail along with you to a doctor's."

"Not necessary. I'll be all right. It's only a few blocks to his
office. Fact is, I'm feeling quite myself again."

"Well, if you're sure. Prob'ly you've only sprained your arm. By the
way, I'd kinda like to go over Uncle's apartment again. Mind if I do?
I don't reckon the police missed anything, but you can never tell."

James hesitated. "I promised the Chief of Police not to let anybody
else in. Tell you what I'll do. I'll see him about it and get a
permit for you. Say, Kirby, I've been thinking one of us ought to go
up to Dry Valley and check things up there. We might find out who
wrote that note to Uncle. Maybe some one has been making threats in
public. We could see who was in town from there last week. Could you
go? To-day? Train leaves in half an hour."

Kirby could and would. He left Rose to talk with the tenants of the
Paradox Apartments, entrained for Dry Valley at once, and by noon was
winding over the hilltops far up in the Rockies.

He left the train at Summit, a small town which was the center of
activities for Dry Valley. Here the farmers bought their supplies and
here they marketed their butter and eggs. In the fall they drove in
their cattle and loaded them for Denver at the chutes in the railroad
yard.

There had been times in the past when Summit ebbed and flowed with a
rip-roaring tide of turbulent life. This had been after the round-ups
in the golden yesterday when every other store building had been
occupied by a saloon and the rattle of chips lasted far into the small
hours of night. Now Colorado was dry and the roulette wheel had gone
to join memories of the past. Summit was quiet as a Sunday afternoon
on a farm. Its busiest inhabitant was a dog which lay in the sun and
lazily poked over its own anatomy for fleas.

Kirby registered at the office of the frame building which carried on
its false front the word HOTEL. This done, he wandered down to the
shack which bore the inscription, "Dry Valley Enterprise." The owner
of the paper, who was also editor, reporter, pressman, business
manager, and circulator, chanced to be in printing some dodgers
announcing a dance at Odd Fellows' Hall. He desisted from his labors
to chat with the stranger.

The editor was a fat, talkative little man. Kirby found it no trouble
at all to set him going on the subject of James Cunningham,