"They would stand a good show of forcing their way in here, and then it would be all up with me."
It was a terrible thing to stand in peril of such a death. Frank felt that he could not die thus; he would live to clear his honor.
But what could he do? He was helpless, and he could not fight for himself. Must he remain impassive, and let events go on as they might?
"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."