The people standing around the boy looked into each other’s faces, and there was a movement as if to draw weapons.
“Permit me to congratulate you on the discovery of the leader of the outlaws,” the old man said with a snarl. “Perhaps you will be kind enough to give us his name?”
“There are no objections that I know of,” was the reply. “His name is Felix Emory. You may have heard of him.”
“An old acquaintance of my son Albert,” the old man said.
“That is the name of the man who was so mysteriously murdered in the Kintla lake cave,” Slocum observed. “Why do you place the crime on the dead?”
“Felix Emory,” Ned said, “is not dead. He is alive at this moment—alive and in this room!”
The young man broke into a jarring laugh and turned to the old man.
“You remember the strange resemblance between Felix and myself,” he said. “Well, it seems to have deceived this clever young man. By the way, Slocum, why don’t you take the lad to the police station? We have no more time for him here.”
Slocum and another sprang forward, but Ned opened the door with a quick motion and stood beyond their reach.
“The man found dead in the cave,” the boy said, facing the old man, “had met with an accident in his youth. The first joint of the little finger of the right hand was missing. Also, there was a scar over his left eye—a trifling scar, made with a knife in the hands of a playmate. Do you recall these marks of identification, Mr. Lemon?” he added.