The girl turned to Kirby.  “You know I’ve wondered about that myself.  The society columns of the papers said it was the older Mr. Cunningham that was going to marry her.  And I’ve seen, since your uncle’s death, notices in the paper about his engagement to Miss Harriman.  But I thought it must have been a mistake, since it was the younger Mr. Cunningham she did marry.  Maybe the reporters got the two mixed.  They do sometimes get things wrong in the papers, you know.”

This explanation was plausible, but Kirby happened to have inside information.  He remembered the lovely photograph of the young woman in his uncle’s rooms and the “Always, Phyllis” written across the lower part of it.  He recalled the evasive comments of both James and his brother whenever any reference had been made to the relation between Miss Harriman and their uncle.  No, Phyllis Harriman had been engaged to marry James Cunningham, Senior.  He was sure enough of that.  In point of fact he had seen at the district attorney’s office a letter written by her to the older man, a letter which acknowledged that they were to be married in October.  It had been one of a dozen papers turned over to the prosecutor’s office for examination.  Then she had jilted the land promoter for his nephew.

Did his uncle know of the marriage of his nephew?  That was something Kirby meant to find out if he could.  The news he had just heard lit up avenues of thought as a searchlight throws a shaft into the darkness.  It brought a new factor into the problem at which he was working.  Roughly speaking, the cattleman knew his uncle, the habits of mind that guided him, the savage and relentless passions that swayed him.  If the old man knew his favorite nephew and his fiancee had made a mock of him, he would move swiftly to a revenge that would hurt.  The first impulse of his mind would be to strike James from his will.

And even if his uncle had not yet discovered the secret marriage, he would soon have done so.  It could not have been much longer concealed.  This thing was as sure as any contingency in human life can be:  if Cunningham had lived, his nephew James would never have inherited a cent of his millions.  The older man had died in the nick of time for James.

Already Kirby had heard a hint to this effect.  It had been at a restaurant much affected by the business men of the city during the lunch hour.  Two men had been passing his table on their way out.  One, lowering his voice, had said to the other:  “James Cunningham ought to give a medal to the fellow that shot his uncle.  Didn’t come a day too soon for him.  Between you and me, J. C. has been speculating heavy and has been hit hard.  He was about due to throw up the sponge.  Luck for him, I’ll say.”