They will lock me up in the
Tombs and I'll have no show at all. Mrs. Cameron will believe that
I did it, and won't come near me. If he dies I'll be sent to the
electric chair--and you'll be my murderer."
"What am I goin' to do, then?" demanded Jimmie. "I can't go out
of the room and testify that I know nothing about it when the police
do come. I can't do that for you, even if you do belong to the Black
Bear Patrol. I wish I'd never come here to-night. I wish I'd never
worked for the scrubwoman."
"To face danger in order to help others," Fremont repeated, significantly.
"Oh, I know--I know," said Jimmie, flinging his arms out in a gesture
of despair. "I've heard that before, but what am I to do?"
"Who's your patrol leader?" asked Fremont. "Go and ask him, or the
scoutmaster. One of them ought to be able to tell you what you ought
to do."
"And you'll take to your legs while I'm gone " replied Jimmie, with
a grin. "Good idea that. For you."
"Here," said Fremont, tossing out his key to the door, "go on away
and lock me in. I couldn't get away if I wanted to, and I give you
my honor that I won't try. Go and find some one you can talk this
thing over with."
Jimmie's eyes brightened with sudden recollection of his patrol
leader's love for mysterious cases--his great liking for detective work.
"Say," he said, presently, "I'll go an' bring Ned Nestor. He's my
patrol leader, and the bulliest boy in New York. He'll know what to
do.
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