CHAPTER XXVII
THE DETECTIVE GETS TWO SURPRISES
Kirby stared down at the document in front of him. He could scarcelybelieve the evidence flashed by his eyes to his brain. It was thedocument he had asked the county recorder at Golden to send him--and itcertified that, on July 21, _James Cunningham and Phyllis Harriman hadbeen united in marriage_ at Golden by the Reverend Nicodemus Rankin.
This knocked the props from under the whole theory he had built up toaccount for the disappearance of Esther McLean. If Esther were not thewidow of his uncle, then the motive of James in helping her to vanishwas not apparent. Perhaps he told the truth and knew nothing about theaffair whatever.
But Kirby was puzzled. Why had his uncle, who was openly engaged toPhyllis Harriman, married her surreptitiously and kept that marriage asecret? It was not in character, and he could see no reason for it.Foster had sent him to Golden on the tacit hint that there was someclue in the license register to the mystery of James Cunningham'sdeath. What bearing had this marriage on it, if any?
It explained, of course, the visit of Miss Harriman to his uncle'sapartments on the night he was murdered. She had an entire right to gothere at any time, and if they were keeping their relation a secretwould naturally go at night when she could slip in unobserved.
But Kirby's mind wandered up and down blind alleys. The discovery ofthis secret seemed only to make the tangle more difficult.
He had a hunch that there was a clue at Golden he had somehow missed,and that feeling took him back there within three hours of the receiptof the certificate.
The clerk in the recorder's office could tell him nothing new exceptthat he had called up Mrs. Rankin by telephone and she had brought upthe delayed certificate at once. Kirby lost no time among the records.He walked to the Rankin house and introduced himself to an old ladysunning herself on the porch. She was a plump, brisk little personwith snapping eyes younger than her years.
"I'm sorry I wasn't at home when you called. Can I help you now?" sheasked.
"I don't know. James Cunningham was my uncle. We thought he hadmarried a girl who is a sister of the friend with me the day I called.But it seems we were mistaken. He married Phyllis Harriman, the youngwoman to whom he was engaged."
Mrs. Rankin smiled, the placid, motherly smile of experience. "I'venoticed that men sometimes do marry the girls to whom they are engaged."
"Yes, but--" Kirby broke off and tried another tack. "How old was thelady? And was she dark or fair?"
"Miss Harriman? I should think she may be twenty-five. She is dark,slender, and beautifully dressed. Rather an--an expensive sort ofyoung lady, perhaps."
"Did she act as though she were much--well, in love with--Mr.Cunningham?"
The bright eyes twinkled. "She's not a young woman who wears her hearton her sleeve, I judge. I can't answer that question. My opinion isthat he was very much in love with her. Why do you ask?"
"You have read about his death since, of course," he said.
"Is he dead? No, I didn't know it." The birdlike eyes opened wider."That's strange too."
"It's on account of the mystery of his death that I'm troubling you,Mrs. Rankin. We want it cleared up, of course."
"But--two James Cunninghams haven't died mysteriously, have they?" sheasked. "The nephew isn't killed, too, is he?"
"Oh, no. Just my uncle."
"Then we're mixed up somewhere. How old was your uncle?"
"He was past fifty-six--just past."
"That's not the man my husband married."
"Not the man! Oh, aren't you mistaken, Mrs. Rankin? My uncle wasstrong and rugged. He did not look his age."
The old lady got up swiftly. "Please excuse me a minute." She movedwith extraordinary agility into the house. It was scarcely a minutebefore she was with him again, a newspaper in her hand. In connectionwith the Cunningham murder mystery several pictures were shown. Amongthem were photographs of his uncle and two cousins.
"This is the man whose marriage to Miss Harriman I witnessed," she said.
Her finger was pointing to the likeness of his cousin James Cunningham.