"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:

"My dear young lady, I assure you that you have made the greatest
mistake of your life. I know this boy--I am his guardian. It is not
possible that he is Black Harry, for----"