"They'll ask what's to have prevented you from openin' the window an' steppin' in while my uncle was tied up, from shootin' him an' slippin' down the fire escape, an' from walkin' back upstairs to your own room at the Wyndham."
"Are you claimin' that I killed him?" Olson wanted to know.
"I'm tellin' you that the police will surely raise the question."
"If they do I'll tell 'em who did," the rancher blurted out wildly.
"I'd tell 'em first, it I were in your place. It'll have a lot more weight than if you keep still until your back's against the wall."
"When I do you'll sit up an' take notice. The man who shot Cunningham is yore own cousin," the Dry Valley man flung out vindictively.
"Which one?"
"The smug one—James."
"You saw him do it?"
"I heard the shot while I was on the roof. When I looked round the edge of the blind five minutes later, he was goin' over the papers in the desk—and an automatic pistol was there right by his hand."