"Cass Hull."

"Business?"

"Real estate, mostly farm lands."

"Did you know James Cunningham, the deceased?" asked Johns.

"Yes. Worked with him on the Dry Valley proposition, an irrigation
project."

"Ever have any trouble with him?"

"No, sir--not to say trouble." Hull was already perspiring profusely.
He dragged a red bandanna from his pocket and mopped the roll of fat
that swelled over his collar. "I--we had a--an argument about a
settlement--nothin' serious."

"Did he throw you out of his room and down the stairs?"

"No, sir, nothin' like that a-tall. We might 'a' scuffled some, kinda
in fun like. Prob'ly it looked like we was fightin', but we wasn't.
My heel caught on a tread o' the stairs an' I fell down." Hull made
his explanation eagerly and anxiously, dabbing at his beefy face with
the handkerchief.

"When did you last see Mr. Cunningham alive?"

"Well, sir, that was the last time, though I reckon we heard him pass
our door."