end a wrong idea, which, of course, he only guessed.

"Everything you have done since you left the building that night is
known to me," the big man went on. "You deserve death for the marplot
that you are, but I will release you if you will restore the papers."

Fremont made no reply whatever to this. As a matter of fact, he did
not even know the nature of the papers which were so in demand, Nestor
having told him little of his real mission to Mexico. In the meantime
Jimmie way trying in every way he could think of, without revealing his
presence, to catch Fremont's eye and make him understand that help was
at hand, and that he ought to reveal his identity and so create delay,
as well as escape whatever cruelty the big fellow had in store for the
boy he was being mistaken for.

"I'll give you three minutes, Nestor," the leader finally said, "to
tell me where the papers are. At the end of that time, if you remain
obstinate, I'll order you shot. Decide!"

Jimmie twisted and wiggled about until he became fearful that the noise
he was making must disclose his presence, but Fremont did not cast a
look in his direction. The leader stood grimly in the foreground with
watch in hand. The seconds seemed to Jimmie to be running by like a
mill-race.

"Two minutes."

Fremont's face did not change, except for a slight tightening of the
lips. Jimmie listened intently for the sound of a drum on the mountain
side below. It now was quite light, and the watcher could see every
movement made by the men he believed to be brigands and their prisoner.
A chill of terror ran through his veins as he saw the ragged squad
examining their guns as if they expected to use them at the expiration
of two more minutes.

"One minute."

The leader snapped out the words viciously; his evil eyes sparred for
an instant with those of his captive and were then lowered to the
ground. Jimmie took his revolver from his pocket and held it ready for
action. As he had declared to the drummer, it was his deliberate
intention to shoot the leader an instant before he gave the order to
fire. He knew that the discharge would point out his place of
concealment, and did not doubt that the volley intended for Fremont
would be turned upon himself, but the knowledge did not swerve him from
his purpose.

He counted the next seconds by his own fierce heart-beats. Thirty-four.
Thirty-five. Thirty-six. It seemed to him that a second was never so
short bef