even if he committed a murder if that's the way you want to
put it. He did, didn't he?"

"Guess so."

"Probably he was crazy when he did it.... Wasn't he?"

"Guess so."

At the hospital they were shown into the public ward at the door of
which sat a policeman. That was to show that Blythe was under arrest. He
was likely to escape! He lay upon his cot, his head swathed in bandages,
his eyes hollow, his face white. He moved his eyes and smiled at the
scouts without moving his head. It was the same old smile, simple and
companionable, as if he were of their own age and one of them. All in a
rush it took them back to old Camp Merritt.

"Doctor Cawson," he said, just above a whisper. "Did he come too? He'd
like to see me now, eh?"

"No, he didn't come, boss," said Warde; "but Pee-wee's coming. I guess
he stopped to do a good turn. Better?"

"Weak yet," their friend said, reaching a white hand out, which each of
the boys shook gently. "Your foot all right?" he asked Roy.

"Sure, only I can't run yet," Roy said. "I should worry. I've got to
thank _you_, that's one sure thing."

There was an awkward pause; the scouts did not know what to say. They
wondered if their friend knew of the dreadful accusation. They felt that
whatever they said or did would be wrong in that spotless, silent place,
which was subject to rules and customs that they did not understand.
Finally, with furtive glances at the nurses, they ventured to sit upon
the edge of the cot. Then they felt easier and more at home.

Despite his weakness and pallor and the appalling look which his
bandages gave him, there was something pleasant and wholesome in the
victim's look which the scouts had not seen before. Stricken and
helpless though he was, he did not seem peculiar.

"I hurt my foot when I was a kid," he said in a weak voice; "I stepped
on a scythe. I couldn't walk for two months."

"Your left foot?" Roy asked.

"My left heel, the scar's there now."

"I know," Roy said.

This was the first time that their queer friend had ever spoken of his
early life. He smiled again, that pleasant, companionable smile.

"How did you know?" he asked.

"I--tell us about it," Roy said.

"I stepped on a scythe in the hayfield. I thought I told Doctor Cawson."

"No, you never told him," said Warde, gently.

"That's funny," their friend said.

There followed a pause. The victim lay quite still. The boys did not
know whether they should go or not.

"I k