CHAPTER II.
A MEMBER OF THE WOLF PATROL.
When Fremont opened the door of the Cameron suite, facing the GreatWhite Way, he saw that the room before him was dark and in disorder.The place was dimly illuminated from the high-lights on Broadway, andthe noises of the street came stridently up, still, there seemed to theboy to be a shadowy and brooding hush over the place.
Remembering his subconscious impressions of some indefinable evil athand, the boy shivered with a strange dread as he switched on theelectrics, half afraid of what they might reveal. Why was the room sodark and silent? The lights had been burning when he looked up frombelow, and he had not met Mr. Cameron on his way up. Where was the manhe had come to meet? What evil had befallen him?
At the left of the apartment, from which two others opened, to rightand left, was a small safe, used privately by Mr. Cameron. Its usualplace was against the wall, but it had been wheeled about so that itfronted the windows. The door was open, and, although no violenceseemed to have been used, Fremont saw that the interior was in a mess,papers and books being scattered about in confusion.
At the right of the room, and near the doorway opening into the northroom, stood a large flat-topped desk, most of the drawers of which werenow open. One of the drawers lay on its side on the floor, and wasempty. The articles on the desk's top gave evidence of rough handling.Papers appeared to be dripping from filecases, and a black pool of inklay on the shining surface of the desk.
A swivel-chair which had stood in front of the desk was overturned, andits back now rested on the rug while its polished castors stuck up inthe air. At first glance, there seemed to be no human being in thesuite save the frightened boy.
With his mind filled with thoughts of robbery, George was about to rushout into the corridor and summon assistance, when a slight sound comingfrom the north room attracted his attention. He hastened thither, andwas soon bending over an office couch upon which lay a still figure.
There was no longer doubt in the mind of the boy as to what had takenplace there. Mr. Cameron had been attacked and the suite ransacked.The boy recalled the fact that the rooms had been lighted from withinwhen he stood on the pavement, and wondered if it would not bepossible, by acting promptly, to capture the assassin, as he must stillbe in the building, possibly hiding in some of the dark corners.
First, however, it was necessary that the injured man should receivemedical help. Fremont saw a wound on the head, probably dealt withsome blunt instrument, and then moved toward the telephone in the outerroom. As he did so the corridor door was opened and a boy of perhapsfifteen years looked in. When the intruder saw that Fremont wasobserving him, he advanced to the connecting doorway.
For quite a minute the boys, standing within a yard of each other,remained silent. Fremont would have spoken, but the accusing look onthe face of the other stopped him. The intruder glanced keenly aboutthe two rooms which lay under his gaze and finally rested on the figureon the leather office couch. Then, while Fremont watched himcuriously, he went back to the corridor door and stood against it.
"You've got your nerve!" he said, then. "You're nervy, but you ain'tgot good sense, doin' a think like that with the shades up, the lightson, an' the door unlocked. What did you go an' do it for?"
The sinister meaning of the words took form in the mind of the boyinstantly. For the first time he realized that he would be accused ofthe crime, and that circumstances would be against him. If Mr. Cameronshould never recover sufficiently to give a true account of what hadtaken place, he would be arrested and locked up as the guilty one.
If his benefactor should die without regaining consciousness, he mighteven be sent to the electric chair, and always his name would bementioned with horror. While these thoughts were passing through thedazed mind of the boy, there came, also, the keen regret that FrankShaw had not accompanied him to the building. That would have changedeverything--just one witness.
"What did you go an' do it for?" repeated the intruder. "What had Mr.Cameron ever done to you?"
"You think I did it?" said Fremont, as cooly as his excitement wouldpermit of. "You think I struck Mr. Cameron and robbed the office?"
"What about all this?" asked the boy, swinging a hand over the litteredrooms, "and the man on the couch?" he added. "Who did it if youdidn't?"
"I understand that circumstances are against me," Fremont said,presently. "It looks bad for me, but I didn't do it. I came here toaccompany Mr. Cameron home, and found everything just as you see itnow."
A smile of disbelief flitted over the other's face, but he did notspeak.
"I hadn't been in here half a minute when you came in," Fremont wenton. "I had just switched on the lights when I heard a noise in hereand there Mr. Cameron lay. I was going to the 'phone when you entered."
"Tell it to the judge," the other said, grimly.
Fremont dropped into a chair and put a hand to his head. Of course.There would be a judge, and a jury, and a crowded court room, andcolumns in the newspapers. He had read of such cases, and knew howreporters convicted the accused in advance of action by the courts.
"Where did you get that badge?" the intruder demanded, stepping forwardas Fremont lifted his arm. "The arrow-head badge with the letteredscroll, I mean."
"I earned it," replied Fremont, covering the scroll with one hand. "Canyou tell me," he continued, "what the letters on the scroll say?"
"Be prepared," was the reply.
"Be prepared for what?"
"To do your duty, and to face danger in order to help others."
"What is the name of your patrol?"
"The Wolf. And your's is the Black Bear. I've heard a lot about theboys of that patrol, a lot that was good."
"And never anything that was bad?"
"Not a thing."
"Well then," said Fremont, extending his hand, which the other hastenedto take, "you've got to help me now. You've got to stand by me. It isyour duty."
"If you belong to the Black Bear Patrol," began the boy, "and have allthe fine things you want--as the members of that patrol do--what didyou want to go an' do this thing for? What's your name?"
"George Fremont. What is yours?"
"Jimmie McGraw," was the reply. "I'm second assistant to the privatesecretary to the woman who scrubs here nights. She'll be docking meif I don't get busy," he added, with a mischievous twinkle in his keengray eyes. "Or, worse, she'll be comin' in here an' findin' out what'sgoin' on."
"Why didn't one of you come in here before I got to the top of thestairs?" asked Fremont, illogically. "Why did you just happen in herein time to accuse me of doing this thing?"
"I was just beginnin' on this floor," the boy replied. "I wish nowthat I hadn't come in here at all. You know what I've got to do?"
"You mean call the police?" asked Fremont.
"That's what I've got to do."
"I didn't do it. I wasn't here when it was done," exclaimed Fremont."You've got to listen to me. You've got to listen to me, and believewhat I say. It is your duty to do so."
"What did you want to go and be a Boy Scout an' do such a thing for?"demanded the boy. "Boy Scouts don't protect robbers, or murderers. Youknow I've got to go an' call the police. There ain't nothin' else Ican do."
"If you call the police now," Fremont urged, "you'll rob me of everychance to prove that I am innocent. They will lock me up in the Tombsand 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 electricchair--and you'll be my murderer."
"What am I goin' to do, then?" demanded Jimmie. "I can't go out of theroom 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 BearPatrol. I wish I'd never come here to-night. I wish I'd never workedfor 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 gestureof despair. "I've heard that before, but what am I to do?"
"Who's your patrol leader?" asked Fremont. "Go and ask him, or thescoutmaster. One of them ought to be able to tell you what you oughtto do."
"And you'll take to your legs while I'm gone," replied Jimmie, with agrin. "Good idea that. For you."
"Here," said Fremont, tossing out his key to the door, "go on away andlock me in. I couldn't get away if I wanted to, and I give you myhonor that I won't try. Go and find some one you can talk this thingover with."
Jimmie's eyes brightened with sudden recollection of his patrolleader's love for mysterious cases--his great liking for detective work.
"Say," he said, presently, "I'll go an' bring Ned Nestor. He's mypatrol leader, and the bulliest boy in New York. He'll know what todo. I'll bet he'll come here when he knows what the trouble is. AndI'll do just as he says."
Jimmie turned toward the door, fingering the key, his eyes blinkingrapidly, then he turned and faced Fremont.
"If Ned Nestor tells me it ain't no use," he said, slowly, reluctantly,"I'll have to bring the police. I'll have to do it anyway, if he tellsme to."
"You'll find me here, whoever you bring," Fremont replied. "I won'trun away. What would be the use of that? They'd find me and bring meback. Go on out and bring in anyone you want to. I guess I'll nevermake the trip to the Rio Grande we were planning to-night--just beforeI came here."
"The Black Bears?" asked Jimmie. "Were they planning a trip to the RioGrande?"
Fremont nodded and pointed toward the door.
"Anyway," he said, "you can get me out of this suspense. You can letme know, if you want to, whether I am going to the Rio Grande or to theTombs."
"Jere! What a trip that would be."
Without waiting for any further words, Jimmie darted out of the doorand then his steps were heard on the staircase. Fremont had never inall his life had a key turned on him before. He threw himself into achair, then, realizing how selfish he was, he hastened to the northroom and again bent over the injured man.
There appeared to be little change in Mr. Cameron's condition. Hemoved restlessly at intervals. Fremont brought water and used itfreely, but its application did not produce any immediate effect.Realizing that a surgeon should be summoned at once, the boy movedtoward the telephone.
However, he found himself unable to bring himself to the point ofcommunicating with the surgeon he had in mind. Questions would beasked, and he would be suspected, and the intervention of the BoyScouts could do him no good. He understood now that his every hope forthe future centered in the little lad who was hurrying through thenight in quest of Ned Nestor, his patrol leader. If these boys of theWolf Patrol should decide against him, and the injured man should notrecover, there was the end of life and of hope. And only an hour agohe had planned the wonderful excursion down the Rio Grande. That timeseemed farther away to him now than the birth of Adam.
And mixed with the horror of the situation was the mystery of it! Whatmotive could have actuate the criminal? Had the blow been struck by apersonal enemy, in payment of a grudge, or had robbery been the motive?Surely not the latter, for the injured man's valuable watch and chain,his diamonds, were in place. Stocks and bonds, good in the hands ofany holder, lay on the floor in front of the open safe. A robber wouldhave taken both bonds and jewelry.
The one reasonable theory was that the act had been committed by someperson in quest of papers kept in the office files. The manner inwhich the desk and safe had been ransacked showed that a thoroughsearch for something had been made. Directly the boy heard Mr. Cameronspeaking 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 hishead, but his words indicated that he might have fallen under the blowwith the impression in his mind that it was Fremont who had attackedhim. At least the words he was repeating over and over again wouldleave no doubt in the minds of the officers as to who the guilty partywas. While Fremont was mentally facing this new danger, the corridordoor was roughly shaken and a harsh voice demanded admittance.
It was Jim Scoby, the night watchman, a sullen, brutal fellow who hadalways shown dislike for the boy. Why should he be asking admission?Did he suspect? But the fellow went away presently, threatening tocall the police and have the door broken down, and then two personsstopped in front of the door.
Fremont could hear them talking, but could not distinguish the wordsspoken. It seemed, however, that one of the voices was that of JimmieMcGraw, 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 ofthe law?
And there was another question connected with this one, that dependedupon the manner in which the first one was answered:
Would it be the Black Bear Patrol excursion down the Rio Grande, thesweet Spring in the South, or would it be the Tombs prison with itsbrutal keepers and blighted lives?