Cameron and his employe. The interview with
the watchman had taken place on the very night of the crime.
Since that time, the newspaper said, no one had seen him in
New York, at least no one who would admit knowledge of his
movements to the police.
On the whole, the newspaper made out a pretty good case
against the boy, and Fremont was pleased to think that
he had taken the advice of his friend and left the city.
If he had not done so, he would now be in the Tombs, he had
no doubt.
After a time he tossed the paper aside and began walking up
and down his room, anxious for Nestor's return, anxious for
a breath of mountain air--for the freedom of the high places,
for the sniff of a camp-fire. It was then that he heard a
footstep at his door.
He turned the lights down and waited, his hand on a weapon
which had been given him by Nestor. Then the door was opened
softly and an arm clad in khaki was thrust through the narrow
opening. Fremont waited, but no face followed the arm into
view. Then, approaching nearer, he saw something on the
sleeve which sent the hopeful blood surging through his veins.
It was the badge of the Black Bear Patrol, and beneath it was
the Indian arrow-head badge of the Boy Scouts. With a shout
he caught at the door and threw it open. There, with a
delightful smile on his broad face, stood Frank Shaw.
Fremont seized his chum about the neck and dragged him into
the room, where the hugging and pulling about rivaled the
efforts of real black bears.
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