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 friend Burns had just reached town. I would not insinuate for a moment that the Government sleuth carried my letter with him all the way from Berkeley, California, to Boston, but of one thing I felt certain, and my assumptions afterwards proved correct—Burns and the letter arrived in the Eastern city simultaneously. My readers may therefore draw their own conclusions as to how, when and where he became possessed of the knowledge that this particular epistle was from my wife, and that the clipping it contained was a graphic description of McKinley's escape to the balmy shores of the Orient.

Opening the letter, I made every pretense of perusing it. Another thought, however, occupied my mind. Realizing, as I did, that the critical moment had arrived, it was a question with me as to just how I should act, particularly having in view the idea that to keep cool was my only salvation. This had been impressed upon me from the very moment that Burns had electrified my entire nervous system by his magnetic touch on my shoulder.

It was the recollection of the many stories told me by Burns himself during the period he was gathering evidence in the land fraud trials at Portland, that put me on my guard. I was with him a greater portion of that time, and we became quite confidential to a certain degree. He had often related thrilling anecdotes connected with his capture of dangerous criminals, and had invariably attributed his success to the bold and fearless manner in which he would go after them, laying particular stress upon the necessity for keeping his head under the most trying circumstances. Therefore, if I hoped to accomplish results, I must follow the teachings of this past master of the art, and through the adoption of his tactics, it will be seen later how the pupil eclipsed his instructor.

Glancing hurriedly through the letter, as if to make casual note of its contents, I finally settled down to an ostensible careful perusal, but in reality as a measure for gaining further time, as night was wearing on, and I eagerly welcomed the darkness. When I thought it impossible to give the letter more attention without arousing suspicion, I placed it in the envelope and methodically returned it to my pocket, after which we proceeded to engage in general conversation once more.

He asked me all about matters in which we were mutually interested: how long I had been East, and what I was doing in Boston; had I heard from McKinley? and why did he run away? The subject of my home affairs also engrossed the careful consideration of my distinguished host, and the Oregon land fraud situation formed an interesting feature of our discussion.

I felt, as the moments passed, that each would be my last in the postoffice, and that Burns would soon suggest a change of base. I could not understand, at the moment, why he did not broach the subject of his mission to Boston, as I knew full well that his sole purpose in coming there was to place me under arrest. It developed, however, that he, like myself, was playing for time, but with another object in view. In my case, I hoped for night to come that I might make good my escape; with him, it was a question of delay in order to surround himself with sufficient force to effect my capture without difficulty, and prevent any possible chance of escape.

Detective Burns, when he first arrived at the Fenway postoffice, had arranged with the postmaster that the police department should be notified immediately after my appearance, when a squad of patrolmen should be sent to escort me to the station. It was also agreed between them that the postmaster, upon arrival of these reinforcements, should tap gently with his pencil the frosted window of his private office, which was to be the signal to Burns that everything was in readiness. This precaution had never occurred to me, and when, in the general course of business, the postmaster accidentally dropped his lead pencil, its ringing notes fell as a signal upon expectant ears, and brought with them a complete change in the demeanor of my entertainer. Rising brusquely from his seat, and addressing me in the coldest tones imaginable, with a light in his eyes that told its own story of suddenly acquired confidence, he said: Page 242