“This is the first opportunity we’ve had to talk since I came home,” said Cromwell, secure in the knowledge that the driver could not hear their conversation through the divider window separating the front and rear seats.

“I know that your trip to Salt Lake City was successful. And our bank is another seven hundred thousand dollars richer.”

“You haven’t told me how you made out in Denver.”

“Your spies in the Van Dorn Agency were quite accurate in their assessment of the investigation. The Denver office has taken on the job of lead investigator in the hunt for the Butcher Bandit.”

“I hate being called that. I would have preferred something with more swank.”

“Like what, pray tell?” she asked, laughing.

“The Stylish Spirit.”

She rolled her eyes. “I doubt that newspaper editors would be enthused with that one.”

“What else did you find out?”

“The head of the Denver office, Nicholas Alexander, is an idiot. After I flashed a few of my charms, he couldn’t stop speaking about the hunt. He was angry he wasn’t put in charge of the investigation and had no reservations about revealing pertinent information concerning the methods they were going to use to catch the notorious bandit. Van Dorn himself named his top agent, Isaac Bell, to the case. A handsome and dashing devil, and very wealthy, I might add.”

“You saw him?”

“I met him, and, what’s more, I danced with him.” She pulled a small photograph from her purse. “I was waiting to give you this. Not the greatest likeness, but the photographer I hired was not very proficient at shooting photographs without setting them up in advance.”

Cromwell switched on the dome light of the car and examined the photo. The photo showed a tall man, with blond hair and mustache. “Should I be concerned about him?”

Her eyes took on an evasive expression. “I can’t say. He seemed more intelligent and sophisticated than our spies led me to believe. I had them check his background. He rarely if ever fails to find and apprehend his man. His record is quite admirable. Van Dorn thinks very highly of him.”

“If, as you say, he is affluent, why is he wasting his time as a simple detective?”

Margaret shrugged. “I have no idea. Maybe, like you, he craves a challenge, too?”

She hesitated as she adjusted an imaginary loose curl with her fingers.

“Where did he get his money?”

“Did I forget to mention that he comes from a family of bankers in Boston?”

Cromwell stiffened. “I know of the Bells. They own the American States Bank of Boston, one of the largest financial institutions in the country.”

“He’s a paradox,” she said slowly, recalling her few minutes with him in the Brown Palace Hotel. “But he can also be very dangerous. He’ll come after us like a fox chasing a rabbit.”

“A detective who knows the inner workings of banking procedures is not good,”

Cromwell said, his tone low and icy. “We must be especially wary.”