"I do not believe fortune has deserted me," he whispered. "I shall be given a chance to fight for myself." It seemed long hours before the sheriff appeared, accompanied by Burchel Jones, the foxy-faced private detective. "Has he been disarmed?" cautiously asked Jones, as he peered at the boy through the grating in the door. "Yep," replied Kildare, shortly. "Do you think I'm in ther habit o' monkeying with ther prisoners yar?" "H'm! Ha! No, no--of course not! But, you see, this fellow is dangerous--very dangerous. He is not to be trusted." "Wa'al, he's been mild as milk sense he fell inter my hands." "Trickery, my dear sir--base trickery! By the time you have handled so many desperate criminals as I have, you will see through them like glass." Kildare grunted. "Now," continued Jones, with the wisdom of an old owl, "mark the curl of his lip, and the bold, defiant stare of the eye. Mark the covert smile on that face, as if he were really laughing at us now. All those things are significant--mighty significant. You do not dream of the treachery hidden beneath that boyish exterior; but I, sir, can see by his eye that he had rather cut a throat than eat a square meal. The peculiar shape of his lips denote blood-thirstiness, and his nose, which seems rather finely formed to the casual observer, is the nose of a person utterly without conscience. His forehead indicates a certain order of intelligence, but this simply makes him all the more dangerous. He has brain power and force, and that explains why he has succeeded in becoming a leader of desperadoes. That chin is a hard, cruel feature, while the shape of his ears indicates an utter disregard for anything sweet and harmonious of sound, like music. That is an ear which finds more music in the shrieks of murdered victims than in anything else." Frank literally staggered. "Great Scott!" he gasped. "I never before dreamed that I was such a villainous-looking creature!" Kildare began fitting a key to the lock of the door. "Are you sure he is disarmed?" asked the private detective. "Yep." "Well, you are at liberty to do as you like, but I should not remove those irons. It would be far better to keep them on him." "Why?" "Well, you see--that is--hum!--ha!--such a creature cannot be held too fast. There is no telling what he is liable to do." Kildare gave a grunt of disgust, entered the cell, and removed the manacles from Frank's wrists. "Thank you," said the boy, gratefully. "They were beginning to get irksome. I am glad to get them off." "Ther man what calls hisself Professor Scotch has dispatched East fer yer," said the sheriff. "He sw'ars thar has been a mistake made, an' he kin prove you are what ye claim, an' not Black Harry at all." "That can be easily proven," smiled Frank. "All we want is a little time."