"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 the smile of a boy. Moreover, his face was a certificate of
manhood. It was a recommendation more effective than words.

"I think you're wrong, Jack," the older brother said. "Kirby had no
more to do with this than I had."