saw a sturdy boy of little less than eighteen, a lad with a
face that one would trust instinctively. His dark eyes met the blue
ones of the patrol leader steadily. There was no suspicion of guilt in
his manner.

Ned Nestor extended his hand frankly, his strong, clean-cut face
sympathetic. Fremont grasped it eagerly, and the two stood for a
moment looking into each other's eyes.

"I've brought Ned Nestor to talk it over with you," Jimmie said. "He's
a good Scout, only he thinks he's a detective. He gets all the boys
out of scrapes--except me, and I never get into any. That is, he gets
out all the honest ones."

"Jimmie told me about the trouble here," Nestor said, "and I came to
learn the exact truth from you. If you struck this man and rifled the
safe, tell me so at once. There may be extenuating circumstances, you
know."

"I didn't do it," Fremont broke out. "I hadn't been in the room a
minute when Jimmie came in and accused me of the crime. There is some
mystery about it, for no man could get into this building at night
unless he was helped in, or unless he hid during the day, in which case
he would be observed moving about."

Nestor smiled but made no reply.

"There has been no robbery," Fremont continued. "There are negotiable
bonds on the floor by the safe, and Mr. Cameron's watch and chain and
diamonds are still on him."

"Do you know," Nestor said, smiling, "that the points to which you
refer are the strongest ones against you? Tell me all about it, from
the moment you came into the room."

Fremont told the story as it is already known to the reader, Nestor
sitting in silence with a frown of deep thought on his brows. When the
recital was finished he went into the north room and stood over the
unconscious man.

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

Over and over again the accusing words came from the white lips.
Nestor turned and looked keenly at the despairing boy at his side.
Then he stooped over and examined the wound on the head.

"It is a hard proposition," he finally said. "It appears to me that
his mention of your name is more like an appeal for help than an
accusation, however. Jimmie," he went on, facing the boy, "you heard
Fremont coming up the stairs?"

"Yes; he was whistling. He couldn't make enough noise with his feet."

"You followed him up here?"

"Yes," with a little grin.

"Why did you do that?"

"Well, I wanted to see if it was all right--his coming in