“Yes.”  The monosyllable fell reluctantly.

“Where?”

“In Denver.”

“Not in this court-room?”

“Yes.”

“What is the gentleman’s name, Mr. Cunningham?”

“Kirby Lane.”

“Will you point him out?”

James did so.

The lawyer faced the crowded benches.  “I’ll ask Mr. Lane to step forward and take a seat near the front.  I may want to ask him a few questions later.”

Kirby rose and came forward.

“To your knowledge, Mr. Cunningham, had your uncle any enemies?” asked the attorney, continuing his examination.

“He was a man of positive opinions.  Necessarily there were people who did not like him.”

“Active enemies?”

“In a business sense, yes.”

“But not in a personal sense?”

“I do not know of any.  He may have had them.  In going through his desk at the office I found a letter.  Here it is.”

The fat little coroner bustled forward, took the letter, and read it.  He handed it to one of the jury.  It was read and passed around.  The letter was the one the promoter had received from the Dry Valley rancher threatening his life if he ever appeared again in that part of the country.

“I notice that the letter is postmarked Denver,” Cunningham suggested.  “Whoever mailed it must have been in the city at the time.”

“That’s very important,” the prosecuting attorney said.  “Have you communicated the information to the police?”

“Yes.”

“You do not know who wrote the letter?”

“I do not.”

The coroner put the tips of his fingers and thumbs together and balanced on the balls of his feet.  “Do you happen to know the name of the lady with whom your uncle had an appointment on the night of his death at his rooms?”

“No,” answered the witness curtly.

“When was the last time you saw the deceased alive?”

“About three o’clock on the day before that of his death.”

“Anything occur at that time throwing any light on what subsequently occurred?”

“Nothing whatever.”

“Very good, Mr. Cunningham.  You may be excused, if Mr. Johns is through with you, unless some member of the jury has a question he would like to ask.”

One of the jury had.  He was a dried-out wisp of a man wrinkled like a winter pippin.  “Was your uncle engaged to be married at the time of his death?” he piped.

There was a mild sensation in the room.  Curious eyes swept toward the graceful, slender form of a veiled woman sitting at the extreme left of the room.

Cunningham flushed.  The question seemed to him a gratuitous probe into the private affairs of the family.  “I do not care to discuss that,” he answered quietly.

“The witness may refuse to answer questions if he wishes,” the coroner ruled.

Jack Cunningham was called to the stand.  James had made an excellent witness.  He was quiet, dignified, and yet forceful.  Jack, on the other hand, was nervous and irritable.  The first new point he developed was that on his last visit to the rooms of his uncle he had seen him throw downstairs a fat man with whom he had been scuffling.  Shown Hull, he identified him as the man.