He seemed to think it an honor to oblige the detective,who pushed the glass toward him and filled another for himself.
“By the way,” said the detective, before Mr. Johnson had emptied his glass, “if your prisoner is the man I think he is, he had a scar, left by a pistol-shot, on his left wrist. Would you mind my examining it, just for curiosity?”
“Certainly not,” replied Mr. Johnson. “Go ahead.”
While Officer Johnson was finishing his whisky the detective approached close to Carlos, and taking hold of his hand, rolled up the sleeve of his coat. While thus engaged he whispered to him quickly and softly:
“As soon as you are seated in the car pretend to be tired out, and make believe to go to sleep.”
Then he said, aloud, to Carlos’ custodian:
“I may be mistaken; I don’t seem to find the scar. No, this can’t be the man, but there is certainly a wonderful resemblance!”
Carlos was simply paralyzed with astonishment. Was this New York detective a friend in disguise? A flood of wondering mental questions was cut short by the whistle of the approaching train.
Hurry and bustle quickly ensued. Officer Johnson and the detective shook hands and bade each other good-by, and then, the cars having come to a halt, Carlos was conducted on board. It was an express train, and scarcely were he and the officer seated, still handcuffed together, before it was again in motion.
They were in the only ordinary passenger-coach on the train, it consisting mainly of drawing-room and sleeping cars, and being designed chiefly for the accommodation of through travelers. It stopped only once between Dalton and Hillsdale—the places were thirty-five miles apart—and that was at a small watering-station.