As Chip was eating his supper that evening and glancing over the Evening Journal, a large broad-shouldered man, wearing a heavy mustache, passed the table, and, seating himself at another one, faced the detective.
It was part of Chip's religion never to allow any man to pass him or remain near him without looking at him carefully, so lowering the paper until his eye could see just above the upper edge, he glanced at the new-comer. A thrill like an electric shock passed through him, for in every feature, except the heavy mustache, Chip saw Jim Cummings, the Adams Express robber.
The broad girth of his shoulders, the triangular gold-filling of his front tooth, the peculiar manner of hanging his head slightly on one side as if he were a trifle deaf, all belonged to Jim Cummings, all but the mustache. Was it real or false? If real, the man was not the noted robber, but if false—well, if it were false Chip had a bit of paper in his pocket which would take it off.
He felt in his pocket for the warrant, and to his disgust recollected that Sam had it.
He could do nothing without it.
He timed his supper so nicely with that of the suspected man that they both rose together, Chip passing out first; but going down the stairs he fell back and the electric light revealed to the keen eyes of the detective that the mustache was false.
It WAS the train robber.
Cummings, simply stopping a moment to buy a cigar, walked through the office, then crossed Lake on Dearborn street and walked to Randolph, closely followed by Chip.
A Randolph street car came along and Jim sprang on the front platform, Chip jumping on the rear one. Passing through the car, he opened the front door and stood beside Cummings, who was puffing his cigar, his coat collar pulled up and his fur cap drawn down over his ears.
Pulling a cigar from his pocket, Chip felt for some matches, but apparently not finding any, he asked: