u could."

"I shall be held responsible for them."

"No, you won't. I shall send your employers a letter, letting them
know that you did the best you could to keep them out of my hands. But
perhaps they never heard of me," and he laughed.

"If your name is Fox, they have heard of you."

"There is no need to beat about the bush. My name is Fox--James Fox."

"What made you take up such a business, Mr. Fox?" asked Ernest,
gravely.

"Well, I like that! You, a kid, undertake to lecture me."

"You were once a kid yourself."

The outlaw's face grew grave suddenly, and his tone became thoughtful.

"Yes, I was a kid once. At sixteen--is that your age?"

"Yes."

"Well, at sixteen I was as innocent as you. I had a good mother then.
If she had lived, perhaps I would have turned out different. Why, it
seems a great joke, doesn't it? I attended Sunday-school till I was
fifteen."

"You haven't forgotten it, then?"

"No, nor the lessons I learned there. But it is of no use to recall
those days. Are you afraid that you will come to harm?"

Ernest looked intently in the brigand's face.

"No," he said, after a pause. "I think you won't do me any more harm.
But you can do me a great favor."

"What is that--return you the bonds?"

"I would ask that if I thought you would do it, but I don't expect it.
I should like to have you release me and let me go home."

"I can't do that, for I want you to visit me. You may not think it,
but I always like young people. It will be quite a pleasure to me to
have you for a visitor."

"Thank you, but I am afraid that I shall become an unwilling guest."

"Besides, it will be a pleasure to my little boy to meet you. He does
not often meet other boys."

"Have you a son?" asked Ernest in surprise.

The outlaw's face softened.

"Yes," he answered. "He is a sweet little boy, as I can say, even if
he is my son. His name is Frank. Would you like to see his picture?"

"Yes," answered Ernest with interest.

James Fox drew from an inner pocket a small card photograph of a young
boy with a very winning face. Ernest was attracted, for, unlike many
boys of his age, he liked younger children. He looked at the picture
long and earnestly.

"It is a sweet face," he said at last. "Isn't it?" asked the proud
father.

"Is his mother living?"

"No."

"Was there no difficulty in getting it taken?"

"I suppose you mean on account of my profession. Well, there might be
around here, but this