So long as Fremont was held a prisoner
by those who were breaking and not enforcing the law
in doing so, there was hope of rescue.
"Nestor," the Englishman said, thrusting his bewhiskered
face into that of Fremont, "tell me where the papers are,
and I'll set you free in an instant."
"I know nothing about the papers you speak of," was the
reply. "I have never had them in my possession."
The renegade whispered with his companions for a moment.
Jimmie could not hear what was being said, but the
soldiers seemed to be insisting on some point which
the leader was not quite certain of. Then the latter asked:
"You are certain you made no mistake?"
The others nodded and pointed at Fremont.
"It is as you commanded," one of them said, in fair English.
Then the big man turned back to the prisoner, an ugly
frown on his repulsive face.
"You are not telling me the truth," he said. "You know well
enough where the papers are. It is useless for you to deny."
The leader believed the prisoner to be Nestor. That was plain
now. And Fremont had been captured by these brigands in the
absence of the leader, and he was taking their word that they
had abducted the right boy. This might account for the delay.
The leader might have joined his men only now.
"I don't know anything about the papers," insisted Fremont.
"Huh!" muttered Jimmie, from his hiding place. "Why don't
he tell his nobbs who he is? Then he might be released."
Jimmie did not know that Fremont had long been considering
this very point, and finally decided that the correct course
for him to pursue would be to permit his captor to remain in
ignorance of his identity.
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