"Which way did he go when he left you?"

"Toward Fifteenth Street."

"That is all." The lawyer turned briskly toward Kirby. "Mr. Lane,
will you take the stand?"

Every eye focused on the range rider. As he moved forward and took the
oath the scribbling reporters found in his movements a pantherish
lightness, in his compact figure rippling muscles perfectly under
control. There was an appearance of sunburnt competency about him, a
crisp confidence born of the rough-and-tumble life of the outdoor West.
He did not look like a cold-blooded murderer. Women found themselves
hoping that he was not. The jaded weariness of the sensation-seekers
vanished at sight of him. A man had walked upon the stage, one full of
vital energy.

The assistant district attorney led him through the usual
preliminaries. Lane said that he was by vocation a cattleman, by
avocation a rough rider. He lived at Twin Buttes, Wyoming.

One of the reporters leaned toward another and whispered, "By Moses,
he's the same Lane that won the rough-riding championship at Pendleton
and was second at Cheyenne last year."

"Are you related to James Cunningham, the deceased?" asked the lawyer.

"His nephew."