Merton who could give him a scrap of information, and that his
inquiries were all directed to one end; namely, the family histories of
the Pages, the Coopers, and the Fluettes.

Then, from all the people I could find who had seen and talked to this
man, I obtained a description of his appearance and (where they were
remembered) his personal peculiarities. One description photographed
him for me:

"A tall, lean, lanky feller--real sandy--hair, eyes, eyelashes,
eyebrows--no, he did n't have no eyebrows; but all the rest was the
same light yaller color. He was pale and sickly lookin'--poor
man!--and you could n't tell what he was a-lookin' at when he talked to
a body. Any kin o' yourn?"

Who was my mysterious predecessor in the field, if he were not
Alexander Burke?

Who, indeed!

CHAPTER XXIII

BURKE UNBOSOMS

Eight o'clock Thursday morning: an hour before, Fanshawe had heard with
a sigh of relief that I would take his place that morning. I had since
been kicking my heels opposite the rooming house where Alexander Burke
had his lodgings.

At the hour mentioned Burke appeared. I retreated into a sheltering
doorway, and watched him.

He stood for a moment upon the top step, darting quick glances up and
down the street, and intently scanning the few pedestrians who were
abroad at the time. Then he came rapidly down the steps, and turned
toward the city.

The snow muffled my tread, and he did n't hear my approach--did n't
know of my presence until I tapped him upon the shoulder.

"Mr. Burke," said I, "I want you."

With a quick intake of breath, which sounded like the hiss of a snake,
he slewed round and fixed me with his expressionless eyes. Also--to
complete the simile--his head reared back, like a snake's when it is
about to strike. I don't believe that I ever before found such a keen
pleasure in arresting a man.

"Want me!" he gasped. "What for?"

"Yes, you." I could not entirely hide my satisfaction. "And because
you have reached the end of your rope. I don't intend to stand here
and argue about it, either."

In a moment the man was calm--all except his gloved hands. A man's
hands will, nine times out of ten, betray him in spite of himself.
Burke's fingers were twitching, and folding and unfolding without
cessation.

"Swift," he whispered vindictively, "you 'll regret this--so help me
God, you will. Curse you! Why do you persecute me? I 'll go with
you--of course I shall; h