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<h2 id="id01189" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER XXII</h2> <h5 id="id01190">"ARE YOU WITH ME OR AGAINST ME?"</h5> Miss Phyllis Harriman had breakfasted earlier than usual. Her luxuriant, blue-black hair had been dressed and she was debating the important question as to what gown she would wear. The business of her life was to make an effective carnal appeal, and she had a very sure sense of how to accomplish this. A maid entered with a card, at which Miss Harriman glanced indolently. A smile twitched at the corners of her mouth, but it was not wholly one of amusement. In the dark eyes a hint of adventure sparked. Her pulses beat with a little glow of triumph. For this young woman was of the born coquettes. She could no more resist alluring an attractive man and playing with him to his subsequent mental discomfort than she could refrain from bridge drives and dinner dances. This Wild Man from Wyoming, so strong of stride, so quietly competent, whose sardonic glance had taken her in so directly and so keenly, was a foeman worthy of her weapons. "Good gracious!" she murmured, "does he usually call in the middle of the night, I wonder? And does he really expect me to see him now?" The maid waited. She had long ago discovered that Miss Phyllis did not always regulate her actions by her words. "Take him into the red room and tell him I'll be down in a minute," Miss Harriman decided. After which there was swift action in the lady's boudoir. The red room was scarcely more than a cozy alcove set off the main reception-room, but it had a note of warmth, of friendly and seductive intimacy. Its walls whispered of tête-à-têtes, the cushions hinted at interesting secrets they were forever debarred from telling. In short, when Miss Harriman was present, it seemed, no less than the clothes she wore, an expression of her personality. After a very few minutes Miss Phyllis sauntered into the room and gave her hand to the man who rose at her entrance. She was simply but expensively gowned. Her smile was warm for Kirby. It told him, with a touch of shy reluctance, that he was the one man in the world she would rather meet just now. He did not know that it would have carried the same message to any one of half a dozen men. "I'm so glad you came to see me," she said, just as though she were in the habit of receiving young men at eleven in the morning. "Of course I want to know you better. James thinks so much of you." "And Jack," added Lane, smilingly. "Oh, yes. Jack, too," she said, and laughed outright when their eyes met. "I'm sure Jack's very fond of me. He can't help showing it occasionally." "Jack's—impulsive," she explained. "But he's amenable to influence." "Of the right sort. I'm sure he would be." He found himself the object of a piquant, amused scrutiny under her long lashes. It came to him that this Paris-gowned, long-limbed young sylph was more than willing to let him become intrigued by her charms. But Kirby Lane had not called so early in the day to fall in love. "I came to see you, Miss Harriman, about the case," he said. "My good name is involved. I must clear it. I want you to help me." He saw a pulse of excitement flutter in her throat. It seemed to him that her eyes grew darker, as though some shadow of dread had fallen over them. The provocative smile vanished. "How can I help you?" she asked. "If you would answer a few questions—" "What questions?" All the softness had gone from her voice. It had become tense and sharp. "Personal ones. About you and my uncle. You were engaged to him, were you not?" "Yes." "There wasn't any quarrel between you recently, was there?" A flash of apprehension filled her eyes. Then, resolutely, she banished fear and called to her aid hauteur. "There was not, though I quite fail to see how this can concern you, Mr. Lane." "I don't want to distress you," he said gently, "Just now that question must seem to you a brutal one. Believe me, I don't want to hurt you." Her eyes softened, grew wistful and appealing. "I'm sure you don't. You couldn't. It's all so—so dreadful to think about." There was a little catch in her throat as the voice broke. "Let's talk of something more cheerful. I want to forget it all." "I'm sure you do. We all want to do that. The surest way to get it out of our minds is to solve the mystery and find out who is guilty. That's why I want you to tell me a few things to clear up my mind." "But I don't know anything about it—nothing at all. Why should you come to me?" "When did you last see my uncle alive?" "What a dreadful question! It was—let me think—in the afternoon—the day before—" "And you parted from him on the best of terms?" "Of course." He leaned toward her ever so little, his eyes level with hers and steadily fastened upon her. "That's the last time you saw him—until you went to his rooms at the Paradox the night he was killed?" She had lifted her hand to pat into place an escaping tendril of hair. The hand remained lifted. The dark eyes froze with horror. They stared at him, as though held by some dreadful fascination. From her cheeks the color ebbed. Kirby thought she was going to faint. But she did not. A low moan of despair escaped from the ashen lips. The lifted arm fell heavily to her lap. Then Kirby discovered that the two in the red room had become three. Jack Cunningham was standing in the doorway. His glance flashed to Lane accusingly. "What's up? What are you doing here?" he demanded abruptly. The Wyoming man rose. "I've been asking Miss Harriman a question." "A question. What business have you to ask her questions?" demanded Jack hotly. His cousin tried a shot in the dark. "I was asking her," he said, his voice low and even, "about that visit you and she paid to Uncle James's rooms the night he was killed." Kirby knew instantly he had scored a hit. The insolence, the jaunty confidence, were stricken from him as by a buffet in the face. For a moment body and mind alike were lax and stunned. Then courage flowed back into his veins. He came forward, blustering. "What do you mean? What visit? It's a damned lie." "Is it? Then why is the question such a knockout to you and Miss Harriman? She almost fainted, and it certainly crumpled you up till you got second breath." Jack flushed angrily. "O' course it shocked her for you to make such a charge against her. It would frighten any woman. By God, it's an outrage. You come here and try to browbeat Miss Harriman when she's alone. You ask her impudent questions, as good as tell her she—she—" Kirby's eyes were like a glittering rapier probing for the weakness of his opponent's defense. "I say that she and you were in the rooms of Uncle James at 9.50 the evening he was killed. I say that you concealed the fact at the inquest. Why?" He shot his question at the other man with the velocity of a bullet. Cunningham's lip twitched, his eye wavered. How much did his cousin know? How much was he merely guessing? "Who told you we were there? How do you know it? I don't propose to answer every wild accusation nor to let Miss Harriman be insulted by you. Who are you, anyhow? A man accused of killing my uncle, the man who found his valet dead and is suspected of that crime, too, a fellow who would be lying behind the bars now if my brother hadn't put up the money to save the family from disgrace. If we tell all we know, the police will grab you again double-quick. Yet you have the nerve to come here and make insinuations against the lady who is mourning my uncle's death. I've a good mind to 'phone for the police right now." "Do," suggested Kirby, smiling. "Then we'll both tell what we know and perhaps things will clear up a bit." It was a bluff pure and simple. He couldn't tell what he knew any more than his cousin could. The part played by Rose and Esther McLean in the story barred him from the luxury of truth-telling. Moreover, he had no real evidence to back his suspicions. But Jack did not know how strong the restraining influence was. "I didn't say I was going to 'phone. I said I'd a jolly good mind to," Cunningham replied sulkily. "I'd advise you not to start anything you can't finish, Jack. I'll give you one more piece of advice, too. Come clean with what you know. I'm goin' to find out, anyhow. Make up your mind to that. I'm goin' through with this job till it's done." "You'll pull off your Sherlock-Holmes stuff in jail, then, for I'm going to ask James to get off your bond," Jack retorted vindictively. "As you please about that," Lane said quietly. "He'll choose between you or me. I'll be damned if I'll stand for his keeping a man out of jail to try and fasten on me a murder I didn't do." "I haven't said you did it. What I say is that you and Miss Harriman know somethin' an' are concealin' it. What is it? I'm not a fool. I don't think you killed Uncle any more than I did. But you an' Miss Harriman have a secret. Why don't you go to James an' make a clean breast of it? He'll tell you what to do." "The devil he will! I tell you we haven't any secret. We weren't in Uncle's rooms that night." "Can you prove an alibi for the whole evening—both of you?" the range rider asked curtly. "None of your business. We're not in the prisoner's dock. It's you that is likely to be there," Jack tossed out petulantly. Phyllis Harriman had flung herself down to sob with her head in the pillows. But Kirby noticed that one small pink ear was in the open to take in the swift sentences passing between the men. "I'm intendin' to make it my business," Lane said, his voice ominously quiet. "You're laying up trouble for yourself," Jack warned blackly. "If you want me for an enemy you're going at this the right way." "I'm not lookin' for enemies. What I want is the truth. You're concealin' it. We'll see if you can make it stick." "We're not concealing a thing." "Last call for you to show down your cards, Jack. Are you with me or against me?" asked Kirby. "Against you, you meddling fool!" Cunningham burst out in a gust of fury. "Don't you meddle with my affairs, unless you want trouble right off the bat. I'm not going to have a Paul Pry nosing around and hinting slanders about me and Miss Harriman. What do you think I am? I'll protect my good name and this lady's if I have to do it with a gun. Don't forget that, Mr. Lane." Kirby's steady gaze appraised him coolly. "You're excited an' talkin' foolishness. I'm not attackin' anybody's good name. I'm lookin' for the man who killed Uncle James. I'm expectin' to find him. If anybody stands in the way, I'm liable to run against him." The man from Twin Buttes bowed toward the black hair and pink ear of his hostess. He turned on his heel and walked from the room. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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