"Under the name of Burke? On what charge?"
"Robbery, at Poughkeepsie, New York; wanted also for burglary and assault in Denver. My name is Roberts," he added, stiffly, "assistant superintendent of the Pinkerton agency; the man with me is an operative from the New York office."
Cavendish glanced past Roberts toward Colgate, who stood with one hand thrust in his side pocket.
"You know this man Burke?" he asked.
"I saw him once; that's why I was put on the case. You certainly gave me some hot chase, Tom."
"Some chase? What do you mean?"
"Well, I've been on your trail ever since that Poughkeepsie job—let's see, that was two months ago. You jumped first to New York City, and I didn't really get track of you until the night of April 16. Then a copper in the Pennsylvania depot, to whom I showed your picture, gave me a tip that you'd taken a late train West. After that I trailed you through Chicago, down into Mexico, and back as far as Denver. It wasn't hard because you always signed the same name."
"Of course; it's my own. You say you had a photograph of me?"
"A police picture; here it is if you want to look at it—taken in
Joliet."
Westcott grasped the sheet, and spread it open. It was Cavendish's face clearly enough, even to the closely trimmed beard and the peculiar twinkle in the eyes. Below was printed a brief description, and this also fitted Cavendish almost exactly.