."

"All right," said the rough rider, his low, even voice unruffled by
excitement. "If I can't, I can't. We'll say I'm the man who came down
the fire escape. What then?"

James was watching his cousin steadily. The pupils of his eyes
narrowed. He took the answer out of his brother's mouth. "Then we
think you probably know something about this mystery that you'll want
to tell us. You must have been on the spot very soon after the
murderer escaped. Perhaps you saw him."

Kirby told the story of his night's adventure, omitting any reference
whatever to Wild Rose or to anybody else in the apartment when he
entered.

After he had finished, James made his comment. "You've been very
frank, Kirby. I accept your story. A guilty man would have denied
being in the apartment, or he would have left town and disappeared."

The range rider smiled sardonically. "I'm not so sure of that. You've
got the goods on me. I can't deny I'm the man the police are lookin'
for. Mrs. Hull would identify me. So would this reporter Ellis. All
you would have to do would be to hand my name to the nearest officer.
An' I can't run away without confessin' guilt. Even if I had killed
Uncle James, I couldn't do much else except tell some story like the
one I've told you."

"It wouldn't go far in a court-room," Jack said.

"Not far," admitted Kirby. "By the way, you haven't expressed an
opinion, Jack. Do you think I shot Uncle James?"

Jack looked at him, almost sullenly, and looked away. He poked at the
corner of the desk with the ferrule of his cane. "I don't know who
shot him. You had quarreled with him, and you went to have another row
with him. A cop told me that some one who knew how to tie ropes
fastened the knots around his arms and throat. You beat it from the
room by the fire escape. A jury would hang you high as Haman on that
evidence. Damn it, there's a bad bruise on your chin wasn't there when
we saw you yesterday. For all I know he may have done it before you
put him out."

"I struck against a corner in the darkness," Kirby said.

"That's what _you_ say. You've got to explain it somehow. I think
your story's fishy, if you ask me."

"Then you'd better call up the police," suggested Lane.

"I didn't say I was going to call the cops," retorted Jack sulkily.

James looked at his cousin. Kirby Lane was strong. You could not deny
his strength, audacious yet patient. He was a forty-horsepower man
with