"Now you can put down your hands," Jimmie announced. "They'll get stiff if you hold 'em out too long. Now, sit down and pick out your hotel. You may have a room in most any section of this district. Immaterial to us where we put you!"
"What does it mean?" demanded Bradley. "I presume you boys know what you are doing. There's law in this state, as wild as this country looks to be. You'll get years behind prison bars for this."
"Before I forget it," Jimmie asked, with a wink at Frank, "I want you to tell me something. Will you?"
"That depends. What is it you want to know?"
"This: Is the boy down at the cabin the prince, or is he Mike III?"
The eyes of both boys were fixed keenly on Bradley's face as the question was put. So far as they could see, it did not change a particle in color or expression.
"That's a queer question for you to ask," he said. "You'd better asked Mrs. Brady whether it is her grandson or not! And I don't know what you mean, talking about a prince. I haven't seen any prince about here—except the prince of the son of thieves!"
"So you won't tell, eh?" asked Frank.
"The boy I brought in is Michael Brady, son of the son of Mrs.
Brady."
Sitting on the level space half way down to the outcropping ledge which held the workroom of the counterfeiters, Bradley looked anxiously in the direction of the canyon.