“Yes. He said he had thought Locke’s face looked familiar, but must have been mistaken. Anything the matter with Miller, captain?”
“No,” the Ranger smiled. “I was just curious.”
So Miller, who might be with the Tarbox crowd, was seeking to identify the Tarboxes’ strongest enemy in Texas. It came to the Ranger that there had been attempts to buy Locke off, which had failed, and that there had been courteous words that were veiled threats.
Miller looked like a resolute man, a hard man. In all the hours the Ranger had observed him he had not once smiled.
Captain Carmichael went and stood not far from the news stand, facing the lobby, and absently rearranged his necktie, after which he left the hotel by the side entrance. A young man who had been within sight all the evening but had not spoken to him rose from his seat, drifted out aimlessly through the other door and went around the corner to where his captain stood in a shadowed doorway.
“There’s an old fellow sitting not far from the manager’s office,” Carmichael said without preliminary. “White haired, smooth face, new clothes, bad scar on his upper lip.”
“I saw him. Noticed the scar.”
“His name is Andrew Miller. Born an Englishman; now says he lives in Buenos Aires—and I reckon he does; he has the papers to prove it. Tourist. First trip to the States, he says. Came in on the train with me yesterday. We didn’t get acquainted but after seeing me there on the train he’d be bound to notice me, of course, if I stuck too close to him. I want him followed tonight and to-morrow. Get McCampbell to help you and split up the work so he won’t see too much of either one of you. I want to know what he does, who he sees, what he talks about.”
“Yes, suh.”
“That’s all.” The young man turned away. “Oh, Burnham! You know that crowd I’m watching. If he gets in touch with any of them get me word as soon as you can—and try to fix it so you and McCampbell can split up and keep tabs on both him and the people he sees.”