"Fremont! Fremont! He did it! He did it!"

Over and over again the accusing words came from the white lips. Nestor
turned and looked keenly at the despairing boy at his side. Then he
stooped over and examined the wound on the head.

"It is a hard proposition," he finally said. "It appears to me that his
mention of your name is more like an appeal for help than an accusation,
however. Jimmie," he went on, facing the boy, "you heard Fremont coming
up the stairs?"

"Yes; he was whistling. He couldn't make enough noise with his feet."

"You followed him up here?"

"Yes," with a little grin.

"Why did you do that?"

"Well, I wanted to see if it was all right--his coming in here."

"Very commendable," smiled Nestor. "Do you think he would have attracted
attention to himself by whistling if he had had no business here?"

"Anyway," observed Jimmie, "I followed him up. Wish I hadn't, and wish
you wouldn't hop onto me so."

"Do you think he was in these room before he whistled on the stairs?"
was the next question. "That is, in the rooms within a couple of
hours of the time you heard him coming up the stairs?"