"What about all this?" asked the boy, swinging a hand over the
littered rooms, "and the man on the couch?" he added. "Who did
it if you didn'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 to accompany Mr. Cameron home, and found everything just
as you see it now."

A smile of disbelief flitted over the other's face, but he did
not speak.

"I hadn't been in here half a minute when you came in," Fremont
went on. "I had just switched on the lights when I heard a noise
in here and 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, and columns in the newspapers. He had read of such
cases, and knew how reporters convicted the accused in advance of
action by the courts.

"Where did you get that badge?" the intruder demanded, stepping
forward as Fremont lifted his arm. "The arrow-head badge with
the lettered scroll, I mean."