“There’s an old fellow sitting not far from the manager’s office,” Carmichael said without preliminary. “White haired, smooth face, new clothes, bad scar on his upper lip.” “I saw him. Noticed the scar.” “His name is Andrew Miller. Born an Englishman; now says he lives in Buenos Aires--and I reckon he does; he has the papers to prove it. Tourist. First trip to the States, he says. Came in on the train with me yesterday. We didn’t get acquainted but after seeing me there on the train he’d be bound to notice me, of course, if I stuck too close to him. I want him followed tonight and to-morrow. Get McCampbell to help you and split up the work so he won’t see too much of either one of you. I want to know what he does, who he sees, what he talks about.” “Yes, suh.” “That’s all.” The young man turned away. “Oh, Burnham! You know that crowd I’m watching. If he gets in touch with any of them get me word as soon as you can--and try to fix it so you and McCampbell can split up and keep tabs on both him and the people he sees.” “All right, cap’n.” Ranger Burnham returned to the hotel. So, after a little, did Captain Carmichael, who observed as he entered that Andrew Miller was still sitting quietly in the same place, still deep in thought and unsmiling, and that Burnham was seemingly engrossed in a magazine at the other side of the lobby. The captain did not take further notice of the Argentinian. Indeed, there presently developed something else for him to do, when two well-dressed, Spanish-featured men, typical Mexican refugees of the wealthy class, entered together and met, apparently by accident and to the mutual surprise of all the trio, a big, gray-mustached man who looked like a retired cattleman, was a lawyer of sorts and really made the bulk of his excellent income as a lobbyist. These were some of the people--none of them directly connected with the Tarbox Company, but all interested, for various reasons, in keeping alive friction between Mexico and the United States--on whom he had hoped to get his eyes this evening, and he was too busy observing them until they separated for the night to think again more than casually of the man with the disdainful scar. Nor did he see Miller during all the following day. At six o’clock, while he was washing up for dinner in his hotel room, Ranger Burnham knocked at his door and came in briskly. “Wallace Locke!” he exclaimed, the moment he had closed the door behind him. “If there is anything about Locke that this Miller hasn’t found out, I don’t know what it could be. He’s asked questions about him from the cradle to this good day. And--didn’t you tell me he is a stranger? Never been in the States before?” “That’s what he claims,” Carmichael said.