"Well, well!" fluttered the professor. "You can explain that later on. Let's get away from here." "Look!" Frank held up his hands, and, for the first time, his friends saw the irons on his wrists. They cried out in amazement. "Pwhat th' ould b'y is th' m'anin' av thot?" demanded Barney Mulloy, in the most profound astonishment. "It means that I have been arrested; that's all." "Pwhat fer?" "Robbing, shooting, murdering." "G'wan wid yez!" "This is no time to joke, Frank," said Professor Scotch, reprovingly. "Are you never able to restrain your propensity for making sport?" "This is a sorry joke, professor. I am giving you the straight truth." "But--but it is impossible--I declare it is!" "It is the truth." "Who arristed yez?" asked Barney, as if still doubtful that Frank really meant what he was saying. "A private detective, known as Burchel Jones. He surrendered me to the sheriff of Canadian County, Hank Kildare. That's his voice you can hear above the howling. He is trying to beat the mob back, so he can get me to the jail before I am lynched." "Before you are lynched!" gurgled the little professor, in a dazed way. "What have you done that they should want to lynch you?" "Nothing." "Pwhat do they think ye have done?" asked Barney. "I presume you have heard of Black Harry?" "Yes." "Well, they say I am that very interesting young gentleman." Small man though he was, Professor Scotch had a deep, hoarse voice, and he now let out a roar of disgust that drowned the stentorian tones of Hank Kildare. "This is the most outrageous thing I ever heard of!" fumed the professor, in a rage. "Somebody shall suffer for it! You Black Harry! Why, it is ridiculous!" Barney Mulloy seemed to regard it as extremely funny, for he laughed outright. "Thot bates th' worruld!" he cried. "But it's dead aisy ye kin prove ye're not Black Harry at all, at all!" "I don't know about that. I have been identified." "Pwhat's thot?" "I have been recognized by a person who has seen Black Harry's face." "Who is that fool person?" demanded Scotch, furiously. "Show me to him, and let me give him a piece of my mind!" "There is the person." Frank pointed straight at Lona Dawson, who was regarding him with horrified eyes from a distant corner of the waiting-room. "Thot girrul?" "The young lady?" "Yes." "Who is she?" "Miss Dawson, daughter of Robert Dawson, the banker, whom Black Harry shot during the train hold-up last night. Dawson tore the mask from the young robber's face, and she saw it. A few moments ago she declared that I was the wretch who shot her father." The girl heard his words, and she started forward, panting fiercely: "You are! You are! I will swear to it with my dying breath! I saw your face plainly last night, and I can never forget it. You are the murderous ruffian from whose face my father tore the mask!" Professor Scotch was fairly staggered, but he quickly recovered, and swiftly said: