hase? 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.

"Well," said Roberts, none too pleasantly, "what have you got to say
now?"

"Only this," and the miner squared his shoulders, looking the other
straight in the eyes. "This man is not Tom Burke, but I can tell you
where Tom Burke is."

"Yes, you can?"

"Yes, I can. I cannot only tell you, but I can prove it," he went on
earnestly. "This description says that Burke had a small piece clipped
out of one ear, and that he had a gold-crowned tooth in front, rather
prominent. This man's ears are unmarked, and his teeth are of the
ordinary kind."

The two detectives exchanged glances and Roberts grinned sarcastically.

"You'll have to do better than that," he said gruffly. "All right. Is
there any mention in that description of a peculiar and vivid scar on
the chest of this man Burke? It would be spoken about, if he had any,
wouldn't it?"

"Sure; they never overlook them things."

"Good; unbutton the front of your shirt, Fred."

The two stared at the scar thus revealed, still incredulous, yet unable
to refute the evidence of its existence. Roberts touched it with his
fingers to better assure himself of its reality.

"Darn it all," he confessed. "This beats hell."

"It does," coincided Westcott. "This whole affair has been of that
kind. Now I'll tell you where Tom Burke is--he lies buried in the
Cavendish family lot in Brooklyn."

He turned to Colgate, who stood with mouth half open.

"You're from New York; ever hear of the Cavendish murder?"

"Only saw a paragraph in the Chicago papers. It wasn't my case, and
the only thi