Miss Harriman, or rather Mrs. James Cunningham, nearly fainted again.  She caught at the back of a chair and stood rigid, looking at Kirby with dilated, horror-filled eyes.

“He knows everything—­everything.  I think he must be the devil,” she murmured from bloodless lips.

Jack, too, was shaken, badly.  “For God’s sake, man, what do you know?” he asked hoarsely.

“I know so much that you can’t safely keep quiet any longer.  The whole matter is goin’ to the police.  It’s goin’ to them this afternoon.  What are you goin’ to do?  If you refuse to talk, then it will be taken to mean guilt.”

“Why should it go to the police?  Be reasonable, man.  James didn’t do it, but he’s in an awful hole.  No jury on earth would refuse to convict him with the evidence you’ve piled up.  Can’t you see that?”

Kirby smiled.  This time his smile was grim.  “I ought to know that better than you.  I’ll give you two hours to decide.  Meet you at James’s office then.  There are some things we want to talk over alone, but I think Miss Harriman had better be there ready to join us when we send for her.”

“Going through with this, are you?”

“I’m goin’ through in spite of hell and high water.”

Jack strode up and down the room in a stress of emotion.  “You’re going to ruin three lives because you’re so pigheaded or because you want your name in the papers as a great detective.  Is there anything in the world we can do to head you off?”

“Nothin’.  And if lives are ruined it’s not my fault.  I’ll promise this:  The man or woman I point to as the one who killed Uncle James will be the one that did it.  If James is innocent, as you claim he is, he won’t have it saddled on him.  Shall I tell you the thing that’s got you worried?  Down in the bottom of your heart you’re not dead sure he didn’t do it—­either one of you.”

The young woman took a step toward Kirby, hands outstretched in dumb pleading.  She gave him her soft, appealing eyes, a light of proud humility in them.

“Don’t do it!” she begged.  “He’s your own cousin—­and my husband.  I love him.  Perhaps there’s some woman that loves you.  If there is, remember her and be merciful.”

His eyes softened.  It was the first time he had seen her taken out of her selfishness.  She was one of those modern young women who take, but do not give.  At least that had been his impression of her.  She had specialized, he judged, in graceful and lovely self-indulgence.  A part of her code had been to get the best possible bargain for her charm and beauty, and as a result of her philosophy of life time had already begun to enamel on her a slight hardness of finish.  Yet she had married James instead of his uncle.  She had risked the loss of a large fortune to follow her heart.  Perhaps, if children came, she might still escape into the thoughts and actions that give life its true value.