Tangled Trails (Western Murder Mystery). William MacLeod Raine

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

      "Had you ever had any trouble with your uncle?" Johns asked him.

      "You may decline to answer if you wish," the coroner told the witness.

      Young Cunningham hesitated. "No-o. What do you mean by trouble?"

      "Had he ever threatened to cut you out of his will?"

      "Yes," came the answer, a bit sulkily.

      "Why—if you care to tell?"

      "He thought I was extravagant and wild—wanted me to buckle down to business more."

      "What is your business?"

      "I'm with a bond house—McCabe, Foster & Clinton."

      "During the past few months have you had any difference of opinion with your uncle?"

      "That's my business," flared the witness. Then, just as swiftly as his irritation had come it vanished. He remembered that his uncle's passionate voice had risen high. No doubt people in the next apartments had heard him. It would be better to make a frank admission. "But I don't mind answering. I have."

      "When?"

      "The last time I went to his rooms—two days before his death."

      Significant looks passed from one to another of the spectators.

      "What was the subject of the quarrel?"

      "I didn't say we had quarreled," was the sullen answer.

      "Differed, then. My question was, what about?"

      "I decline to say."

      "I think that is all, Mr. Cunningham."

      The wrinkled little juryman leaned forward and piped his question again. "Was your uncle engaged to be married at the time of his death?"

      The startled eyes of Jack Cunningham leaped to the little man. There was in them dismay, almost panic. Then, swiftly, he recovered and drawled insolently, "I try to mind my own business. Do you?"

      The coroner asserted himself. "Here, here, none of that! Order in this court, if you please, gentlemen." He bustled in his manner, turning to the attorney. "Through with Mr. Cunningham, Johns? If so, we'll push on."

      "Quite." The prosecuting attorney consulted a list in front of him.

       "Cass Hull next."

      Hull came puffing to the stand. He was a porpoise of a man. His eyes dodged about the room in dread. It was as though he were looking for a way of escape.

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