"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."