r. Cameron had been attacked and the suite ransacked.
The boy recalled the fact that the rooms had been lighted from within
when he stood on the pavement, and wondered if it would not be
possible, by acting promptly, to capture the assassin, as he must still
be in the building, possibly hiding in some of the dark corners.

First, however, it was necessary that the injured man should receive
medical help. Fremont saw a wound on the head, probably dealt with
some blunt instrument, and then moved toward the telephone in the outer
room. As he did so the corridor door was opened and a boy of perhaps
fifteen years looked in. When the intruder saw that Fremont was
observing him, he advanced to the connecting doorway.

For quite a minute the boys, standing within a yard of each other,
remained silent. Fremont would have spoken, but the accusing look on
the face of the other stopped him. The intruder glanced keenly about
the two rooms which lay under his gaze and finally rested on the figure
on the leather office couch. Then, while Fremont watched him
curiously, he went back to the corridor door and stood against it.

"You've got your nerve!" he said, then. "You're nervy, but you ain't
got good sense, doin' a think like that with the shades up, the lights
on, an' the door unlocked. What did you go an' do it for?"

The sinister meaning of the words took form in the mind of the boy
instantly. For the first time he realized that he would be accused of
the crime, and that circumstances would be against him. If Mr. Cameron
should never recover sufficiently to give a true account of what had
taken place, he would be arrested and locked up as the guilty one.

If his benefactor should die without regaining consciousness, he might
even be sent to the electric chair, and always his name would be
mentioned with horror. While these thoughts were passing through the
dazed mind of the boy, there came, also, the keen regret that Frank
Shaw had not accompanied him to the building. That would have changed
everything--just one witness.

"What did you go an' do it for?" repeated the intruder. "What had Mr.
Cameron ever done to you?"

"You think I did it?" said Fremont, as cooly as his excitement would
permit of. "You think I struck Mr. Cameron and robbed the office?"

"What about all this?" asked the boy, swinging a hand over the littered
rooms, "and the man on the couch?" he added. "Who did it if you
didn't?"

"I understan