“My name is not Burke; it is Cavendish.”

“So I heard in Denver,” dryly.  “We hardly expected to find you here, for we were down on another matter So you are not Gentleman Tom Burke?”

“No.”

“I know he is not,” interposed Westcott.  “I have been acquainted with this man for nearly twenty years; he is a New York capitalist.”

“And who the hell are you—­a pal?” the fellow sneered.  “Now, see here, both of you.  I’ve met plenty of your kind before, and it is my business not to forget a face.  This man is under arrest,” and he laid a hand heavily on Cavendish’s shoulder.

“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.

“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?”