r.
If you ever come up here we'll dry-gulch you, sure.

The letter was signed, "One You Have Robbed." Attached to it was a
clipping from a small-town paper telling of a meeting of farmers to ask
the United States District Attorney for an investigation of the Dry
Valley irrigation project promoted by James Cunningham.

The promoter smiled. He was not afraid of the Government. He had kept
strictly within the law. It was not his fault there was not enough
rainfall in the watershed to irrigate the valley. But the threat to
dry-gulch him was another matter. He had no fancy for being shot in
the back. Some crazy fool of a settler might do just that. He decided
to let an agent attend to his Dry Valley affairs hereafter. He
dictated some letters, closed his desk, and went down the street toward
the City Club. At a florist's he stopped and ordered a box of American
Beauties to be sent to Miss Phyllis Harriman. With these he enclosed
his card, a line of greeting scrawled on it.

A poker game was on at the club and Cunningham sat in. He interrupted
it to dine, holding his seat by leaving a pile of chips at the place.
When he cashed in his winnings and went downstairs it was still early.
As a card-player he was not popular. He was too keen on the main
chance and he nearly always won. In spite of his loud and frequent
laugh, of the effect of bluff geniality, there was no genuine humor in
the man, none of the milk of human kindness.

A lawyer in the reading-room rose at sight of Cunningham. "Want to see
you a minute," he said.

"Let's go into the Red Room."

He led the way to a small room furnished with a desk, writing supplies,
and a telephone. It was for the use of members who wanted to be
private. The lawyer shut the door.

"Afraid I've bad news for you, Cunningham," he said.

The other man's steady eyes did not waver. He waited silently.

"I was at Golden to-day on business connected with a divorce case. By
chance I ran across a record that astonished me. It may be only a
coincidence of names, but--"

"Now you've wrapped up the blackjack so that it won't hurt, suppose you
go ahead and hit me over the head with it," suggested Cunningham dryly.

The lawyer told what he knew. The promoter took it with no evidence of
feeling other than that which showed in narrowed eyes hard as diamonds
and a clenched jaw in which the muscles stood out like ropes.

"Much obliged, Foster," he said, and the lawyer k