“Are you sure about this, Kearney?” asked Captain Stone, still doubting and hating to admit he had been led into an egregious blunder.
“Certain,” retorted the detective. “He’s been fooling them on the other side for several years, but they nearly got him in Scotland Yard two months ago. I got a full report on him from his straight eyebrows and gray eyes down to the cut of his vest, with picture and measurement attached. His real name is Alf Wilson––there were a hundred men on his trail, but he made a getaway.”
“I don’t suppose there’s any use trying to deny all this now,” said Wilson, without the slightest change of tone, shoving his hands into his trousers pockets and lifting his head in contemplation of the pictures on the wall.
“Not the slightest,” returned the detective, snatching a pair of handcuffs from his coat pocket.
“Wait just a moment, officer,” interrupted Travers Gladwin. “I’d like to ask this man one question.”
“Delighted,” cried the picture expert, turning and showing all his teeth in a mocking smile.
Travers Gladwin pointed to the portrait of “The Blue Boy.”
“How did you know I bought that picture in London upon certain misrepresentations?”
“I was the man behind the gun––think it over.”