Mr. Lane rather dodged the ethics of the case of Hudson.  He had, of course, instigated the theft of the papers.  He was entitled to them.  James had appropriated them by a trick.  Besides, it was a matter of public and private justice that the whole Cunningham mystery be cleared up as soon as possible.  But he was not prepared to pass on Hudson’s right to be the instrument in the case.  The man was, of course, a confidential employee of the oil broker.  There was one thing to be said in his favor.  Kirby had not offered him anything for what he had done nor did he want anything in payment.  It was wholly a gratuitous service.

The cattleman had made inquiries.  He knew of a Japanese interpreter used in the courts.  Foster had recommended him as entirely reliable.  To this man Kirby went.  He explained what he wanted.  While the Japanese clerk read in English the writing to him and afterward wrote out on a typewriter the translation of it, Kirby sat opposite him at the table to make sure that there was no juggling with the original document.

The affair was moving to its climax.  Within a few hours now Kirby expected to see the murderer of his uncle put under arrest.  It was time to take the Chief of Police into his confidence.  He walked down Sixteenth toward the City Hall.

At Curtis Street the traffic officer was semaphoring with energetic gesture the east and west bound vehicles to be on their way.  Kirby jaywalked across the street diagonally and passed in front of an electric headed south.  He caught one glimpse of the driver and stood smiling at the door with his hat off.

“I want to see you just a minute, Miss Harriman.  May I come in?”

Her long, dark eyes flashed at him.  The first swift impulse was to refuse.  But she knew he was dangerous.  He knew much that it was vital to her social standing must not be published.  She sparred for time.

“What do you want?”

He took this as an invitation and whipped open the door.

“Better get out of the traffic,” he told her.  “Where we can talk without being disturbed.”

She turned up Fifteenth.  “If you have anything to say,” she suggested, and swept her long-lashed eyes round at him with the manner of delicate disdain she held at command.

“I’ve been wonderin’ about somethin’,” he said.  “When James telephoned my uncle, on the evenin’ he was killed, that you an’ he were on the way to his rooms, he said you were together; but James reached there alone, you an’ Jack arrivin’ a few minutes later.  Did James propose that he go first?”

The young woman did not answer.  But there was no longer disdain in her fear-filled eyes.  She swung the car, as though by a sudden impulse, to the left and drove to the building where the older James Cunningham had had his offices.

“If you want to ask me questions you’d better ask them before Jack,” she said as she stepped out.