hich the desk and safe had been ransacked showed that a thorough
search for something had been made. Directly the boy heard Mr. Cameron
speaking and hastened to his side. If he had regained consciousness,
the nightmare of suspicion would pass away.

"Fremont! Fremont! He did it! He did it!"

This was worse than all the rest. Mr. Cameron was still out of his
head, but his words indicated that he might have fallen under the blow
with the impression in his mind that it was Fremont who had attacked
him. At least the words he was repeating over and over again would
leave no doubt in the minds of the officers as to who the guilty party
was. While Fremont was mentally facing this new danger, the corridor
door was roughly shaken and a harsh voice demanded admittance.

It was Jim Scoby, the night watchman, a sullen, brutal fellow who had
always shown dislike for the boy. Why should he be asking admission?
Did he suspect? But the fellow went away presently, threatening to
call the police and have the door broken down, and then two persons
stopped in front of the door.

Fremont could hear them talking, but could not distinguish the words
spoken. It seemed, however, that one of the voices was that of Jimmie
McGraw, who had gone out after his patrol leader.

The question in the mind of the waiting boy now was this:

Had Jimmie brought his patrol leader, or had he brought an officer of
the law?

And there was another question connected with this one, that depended
upon the manner in which the first one was answered:

Would it be the Black Bear Patrol excursion down the Rio Grande, the
sweet Spring in the South, or would it be the Tombs prison with its
brutal keepers and blighted lives?

CHAPTER III.

THE WOLF ADVISES FLIGHT.

The question was settled in a moment, for a key was thrust into the
lock and the door swung open. The night watchman had possessed no key
when at the door, for which the boy was thankful. Two persons entered
and the door was closed and locked.

"Who's been here?" asked Jimmie, panting from his long climb. "We
heard a voice in this corridor, and met the watchman down below. He's
red-headed about something. That feller's of about as much use here as
a chorus lady painted on the back drop. I told him that you'd probably
gone to sleep over your work. Here, Black Bear," he continued, with a
grin, "meet Mr. Wolf, otherwise Ned Nestor. You fellers get together
right now."

Fremont