But James might have been there and still be innocent, just as was the case with him and Rose.  The cattleman wanted to find the murderer, but he wanted almost as much to find that James had nothing to do with the crime.  He eliminated Jack, except perhaps as an accessory after the fact.  Jack had a telltale face, but he might be cognizant of guilt without being deeply a party to it.  He could be insolent, but faults of manner are not a crime.  Besides, all Jack’s interests lay in the other direction.  If his uncle had lived a day longer, he would have been sole heir to the estate.

As he wandered through the streets Kirby’s mind was busy with the problem.  Automatically his legs carried him to the Paradox Apartments.  He found himself there before he even knew he had been heading in that direction.  Mrs. Hull came out and passed him.  She was without a hat, and probably was going to the corner grocery on Fifteenth.

“I’ve been neglecting friend Hull,” he murmured to himself.  “I reckon I’ll just drop in an’ ask him how his health is.”

He was not sorry that Mrs. Hull was out.  She was easily, he judged, the dominant member of the firm.  If he could catch the fat man alone he might gather something of importance.

Hull opened the door of the apartment to his knock.  He stood glaring at the young man, his prominent eyes projecting, the red capillaries in his beefy face filling.

“Whadjawant?” he demanded.

“A few words with you, Mr. Hull.”  Kirby pushed past him into the room, much as an impudent agent does.

“Well, I don’t aim to have no truck with you at all,” blustered the fat man.  “You’ve just naturally wore out yore welcome with me before ever you set down.  I’ll ask you to go right now.”

“Here’s your hat.  What’s your hurry?” murmured Kirby, by way of quotation.  “Sure I’ll go.  But don’t get on the prod, Hull.  I came to make some remarks an’ to ask a question.  I’ll not hurt you any.  Haven’t got smallpox or anything.”

“I don’t want you here.  If the police knew you was here, they’d be liable to think we was talkin’ about—­about what happened upstairs.”

“Then they would be right.  That’s exactly what we’re gonna talk about.”

“No, sir!  I ain’t got a word to say—­not a word!” The big man showed signs of panic.

“Then I’ll say it.”  The dancing light died out of Kirby’s eyes.  They became hard and steady as agates.  “Who killed Cunningham, Hull?”

The fishy eyes of the man dodged.  A startled oath escaped him.  “How do I know?”

“Didn’t you kill him?”

“Goddlemighty, no!” Hull dragged out the red bandanna and gave his apoplectic face first aid.  He mopped perspiration from the overlapping roll of fat above his collar.  “I dunno a thing about it.  Honest, I don’t.  You got no right to talk to me thataway.”

“You’re a tub of iniquity, Hull.  Also, you’re a right poor liar.  You know a lot about it.  You were in my uncle’s rooms just before I saw you on the night of his death.  You were seen there.”