d alleys. The discovery of
this secret seemed only to make the tangle more difficult.

He had a hunch that there was a clue at Golden he had somehow missed,
and that feeling took him back there within three hours of the receipt
of the certificate.

The clerk in the recorder's office could tell him nothing new except
that he had called up Mrs. Rankin by telephone and she had brought up
the delayed certificate at once. Kirby lost no time among the records.
He walked to the Rankin house and introduced himself to an old lady
sunning herself on the porch. She was a plump, brisk little person
with snapping eyes younger than her years.

"I'm sorry I wasn't at home when you called. Can I help you now?" she
asked.

"I don't know. James Cunningham was my uncle. We thought he had
married a girl who is a sister of the friend with me the day I called.
But it seems we were mistaken. He married Phyllis Harriman, the young
woman to whom he was engaged."

Mrs. Rankin smiled, the placid, motherly smile of experience. "I've
noticed that men sometimes do marry the girls to whom they are engaged."

"Yes, but--" Kirby broke off and tried another tack. "How old was the
lady? And was she dark or fair?"

"Miss Harriman? I should think she may be twenty-five. She is dark,
slender, and beautifully dressed. Rather an--an expensive sort of
young lady, perhaps."

"Did she act as though she were much--well, in love with--Mr.
Cunningham?"

The bright eyes twinkled. "She's not a young woman who wears her heart
on her sleeve, I judge. I can't answer that question. My opinion is
that he was very much in love with her. Why do you ask?"

"You have read about his death since, of course," he said.

"Is he dead? No, I didn't know it." The birdlike eyes opened wider.
"That's strange too."

"It's on account of the mystery of his death that I'm troubling you,
Mrs. Rankin. We want it cleared up, of course."

"But--two James Cunninghams haven't died mysteriously, have they?" she
asked. "The nephew isn't killed, too, is he?"

"Oh, no. Just my uncle."

"Then we're mixed up somewhere. How old was your uncle?"

"He was past fifty-six--just past."

"That's not the man my husband married."

"Not the man! Oh, aren't you mistaken, Mrs. Rankin? My uncle was
strong and rugged. He did not look his age."

The old lady got up swiftly. "Please excuse me a minute." She moved
with extraordinary agility into the house. It was