It was still early for New York when Kennedy roused me by talking over the telephone in the room.In fact, I doubt if he had slept at all.
Burke was at the other end of the wire.His man had just reported that something had happened during the night at Riverwood, but he couldn't give a very clear account.Craig seemed to enjoy the joke immensely as he told his story to Burke.
The last words I heard were: "All right.Send a man up here to the station - one who knows all the descriptions of these people.I'm sure they will have to come into town to-day, and they will have to come by train, for their car is wrecked.Better watch at the uptown stations, also."After a hasty breakfast we met Burke's man and took our places at the exit from the train platforms.Evidently Kennedy had figured out that the counterfeiters would have to come into town for some reason or other.The incoming passengers were passing us in a steady stream, for a new station was then being built, and there was only a temporary structure with one large exit.
"Here is where the 'portrait parle' ought to come in, if ever,"commented Kennedy as he watched eagerly.
And yet neither man nor woman passed us who fitted the description.
Train after train emptied its human freight, yet the pale man with the concave nose and the peculiar ear, accompanied perhaps by a lady, did not pass us.
At last the incoming stream began to dwindle down.It was long past the time when the counterfeiters should have arrived if they had started on any reasonable train.
"Perhaps they have gone up to Montreal, instead," I ventured.
Kennedy shook his head."No," he answered."I have an idea that I was mistaken about the money being kept at Riverwood.It would have been too risky.I thought it out on the way back this morning.
They probably kept it in a safe deposit vault here.I had figured that they would come down and get it and leave New York after last night's events.We have failed - they have got by us.Neither the 'portrait parle' nor the ordinary photography nor any other system will suffice alone against the arch-criminal back of this, I'm afraid.Walter, I am sore and disgusted.What I should have done was to accept Burke's offer - surround the house with a posse if necessary, last night, and catch the counterfeiters by sheer force.I was too confident.I thought I could do it with finesse, and I have failed.I'd give anything to know what safe deposit vault they kept the fake money in."I said nothing as we strolled away, leaving Burke's man still to watch, hoping against hope.Kennedy walked disconsolately through the station, and I followed.In a secluded part of the waiting-room he sat down, his face drawn up in a scowl such as I had never seen.
Plainly he was disgusted with himself - with only himself.This was no bungling of Burke or any one else.Again the counterfeiters had escaped from the hand of the law.
As he moved his fingers restlessly in the pockets of his coat, he absently pulled out the little pieces of sponge and the ether bottle.
He regarded them without much interest.
"I know what they were for," he said, diving back into his pocket for the other things and bringing out the sharp little knives in their case.I said nothing, for Kennedy was in a deep study.At last he put the things back into his pocket.As he did so his hand encountered something which he drew forth with a puzzled air.It was the piece of paraffin.
"Now, what do you suppose that was for?" he asked, half to himself.
"I had forgotten that.What was the use of a piece of paraffin?
Phew, smell the antiseptic worked into it.""I don't know," I replied, rather testily."If you would tell me what the other things were for I might enlighten you, but - ""By George, Walter, what a chump I am!" cried Kennedy, leaping to his feet, all energy again."Why did I forget that lump of paraffin?
Why, of course - I think I can guess what they have been doing - of course.Why, man alive, he walked right past us, and we never knew it.Boy, boy," he shouted to a newsboy who passed, "what's the latest sporting edition you have?"Eagerly he almost tore a paper open and scanned the sporting pages.
"Racing at Lexington begins to-morrow," he read."Yes, I'll bet that's it.We don't have to know the safe deposit vault, after all.
It would be too late, anyhow.Quick, let us look up the train to Lexington."As we hurried over to the information booth, I gasped, in a whirl:
"Now, look here, Kennedy, what's all this lightning calculation?
What possible connection is there between a lump of paraffin and one of the few places in the country where they still race horses?""None," he replied, not stopping an instant."None.The paraffin suggested to me the possible way in which our man managed to elude us under our very eyes.That set my mind at work again.Like a flash it occurred to me: Where would they be most likely to go next to work off some of the bills? The banks are on, the jewellery-houses are on, the gambling-joints are on.Why, to the racetracks, of course.That's it.Counterfeiters all use the bookmakers, only since racing has been killed in New York they have had to resort to other means here.If New York has suddenly become too hot, what more natural than to leave it? Here, let me see -there's a train that gets there early to-morrow, the best train, too.Say, is No.144 made up yet?" he inquired at the desk.
"No.144 will be ready 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.
