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 knew he was dismissed.

Cunningham paced the room for a few moments, then rang for a messenger.  He wrote a note and gave it to the boy to be delivered.  Then he left the club.

From Seventeenth Street he walked across to the Paradox Apartments where he lived.  He found a note propped up against a book on the table of his living-room.  It had been written by the Japanese servant he shared with two other bachelors who lived in the same building.

Mr. Hull he come see you.  He sorry you not here.  He say maybe perhaps make honorable call some other time.

It was signed, “S.  Horikawa.”

Cunningham tossed the note aside.  He had no wish to see Hull.  The fellow was becoming a nuisance.  If he had any complaint he could go to the courts with it.  That was what they were for.