The Poisoned Pen [50]
in fifteen minutes. Track 8." Kennedy thanked the man, turned abruptly, and started for the still closed gate at Track 8. "Beg pardon - why, hulloa - it's Burke," he exclaimed as we ran plump into a man staring vacantly about. It was not the gentleman farmer of the night before, nor yet the supposed college graduate. This man was a Western rancher; his broad-brimmed hat, long moustache, frock coat, and flowing tie proclaimed it. Yet there was something indefinably familiar about him, too. It was Burke in another disguise. "Pretty good work, Kennedy," nodded Burke, shifting his tobacco from one side of his jaws to the other. "Now, tell me how your man escaped you this morning, when you can recognise me instantly in this rig." "You haven't altered your features," explained Kennedy simply. "Our pale-faced, snub-nosed, peculiar-eared friend has. What do you think of the possibility of his going to the Lexington track, now that he finds it too dangerous to remain in New York?" Burke looked at Kennedy rather sharply. "Say, do you add telepathy to your other accomplishments? "No," laughed Craig, "but I'm glad to see that two of us working independently have arrived at the same conclusion. Come, let us saunter over to Track 8 - I guess the train is made up." The gate was just opened, and the crowd filed through. No one who seemed to satisfy either Burke or Kennedy appeared. The train announcer made his last call. Just then a taxicab pulled up at the street-end of the platform, not far from Track 8. A man jumped out and assisted a heavily veiled lady, paid the driver, picked up the grips, and turned toward us. We waited expectantly. As he turned I saw a dark-skinned, hook-nosed man, and I exclaimed disgustedly to Burke: "Well, if they are going to Lexington they can't make this train. Those are the last people who have a chance." Kennedy, however, continued to regard the couple steadily. The man saw that he was being watched and faced us defiantly, "Such impertinence!" Then to his wife, "Come, my dear, we'll just make it." "I'm afraid I'll have to trouble you to show us what's in that grip," said Kennedy, calmly laying his hand on the man's arm. "Well, now, did you ever hear of such blasted impudence? Get out of my way, sir, this instant, or I'll have you arrested." "Come, come, Kennedy," interrupted Burke. "Surely you are getting in wrong here. This can't be the man." Craig shook his head decidedly. "You can make the arrest or not, Burke, as you choose. If not, I am through. If so - I'll take all the responsibility." Reluctantly Burke yielded. The man protested; the woman cried; a crowd collected. The train-gate shut with a bang. As it did so the man's demeanour changed instantly. " There," he shouted angrily, "'you have made us miss our train. I'll have you in jail for this. Come on now to the nearest magistrate's court. I'll have my rights as an American citizen. You have carried your little joke too far. Knight is my name - John Knight, of Omaha, pork-packer. Come on now. I'll see that somebody suffers for this if I have to stay in New York a year. It's an outrage - an outrage." Burke was now apparently alarmed - more at the possibility of the humorous publicity that would follow such a mistake by the secret service than at anything else. However, Kennedy did not weaken, and on general principles I stuck to Kennedy. "Now," said the man surlily while he placed "Mrs. Knight" in as easy a chair as he could find in the judge's chambers, "what is the occasion of all this row? Tell the judge what a bad man from Bloody Gulch I am." O'Connor had arrived, having broken all speed laws and perhaps some records on the way up from headquarters. Kennedy laid the Scotland Yard finger-prints on the table. Beside them he placed those taken by O'Connor and Burke in New York. "Here," he began, "we have the finger-prints of a man who was one of the most noted counterfeiters in Great Britain. Beside them are those of a man who succeeded in passing counterfeits of several kinds recently in New York. Some weeks