“Sure.” Ward nodded carelessly. “But we don’t want you—not yet.”
“Not yet? Meaning what?”
“Oh, we ain’t got anything on you—yet. When we do we’ll nail you. Right now we got other work.”
“Thanks! Mighty nice of you to tell me. How are you making out?”
“Bum luck, so far,” was the frank admission. “But we’ll git what we’re after. You could help us if you would, but it’s no good askin’ you.”
Douglas grinned jauntily. Then he grew sober. There was something about the patient, straightforward, quiet-spoken Ward that appealed strongly to him, just as there was a coarseness about “Brooklyn Bill” that aroused his reckless antagonism. Too, he himself was now a man-hunter on his own account. With Bill silent behind him and Ward’s steady eyes before him, he felt a sudden swerve from the Traps current in which he had been drifting. Weighing his words, he spoke out.
“See here, Ward. You haven’t told me who your man is, and I’m not asking. Maybe I know something about the case, maybe I don’t. But let’s suppose a case.
“Suppose you’re looking for a fellow—only a young lad—who got sent up for arson and a few other things like that. Suppose I have reason to believe that the young fellow never did what he was sent up for; that he has served years for a crime he never committed; that he was ‘framed.’ Would you blame me for not wanting to help send him back to a good many more years of the same?”
Ward’s eyes widened a trifle.
“No, I wouldn’t. I’d feel sorry for him myself. But ‘framed’? How?”