“Not—not the man?” muttered Piper, still staring at the unconscious captive. “Why, he must be the man—he must be! He can’t be anybody else.”
“He’s not the one I talked with,” reiterated Hooker. “I never saw him before. That man was larger, taller, better looking.”
“Wait a minute,” said Sleuth, thrusting his hand into his pocket and bringing out a clipping from a newspaper. “Here’s the description of James Wilson. About twenty-six years of age, five feet ten inches in height, weight one hundred and sixty pounds, hair slightly curly, eyes blue, teeth white and even.”
“Doesn’t come within a thousand miles of fitting this fellow,” asserted Hooker. “This man is thirty-five, if he’s a minute. He doesn’t stand more than five feet seven or eight, and he won’t weigh a pound over one hundred and forty-five. His hair is coarse, black and bristly. Can’t see the color of his eyes, but look at those teeth! You’d never call them white and even, would you?”
“I should say not,” acknowledged Piper, in a tone of profound regret. “This isn’t Gentleman Jim, but it must be one of his pals. Do you realize what that means, Roy?”
“It means that we’ve caught the wrong bird and won’t get our fingers on that reward money,” sighed the other boy regretfully.
“It means,” said Sleuth grimly, “that Fred Sage was concerned in assisting to escape a member of that gang, to whom he is in no way related. It means that he’s an accomplice. There would be an excuse for his aiding his brother, but not for rendering assistance to any other member of the gang. It looks pretty bad for Fred.”
“I can’t believe it,” muttered Roy—“I can’t believe he’d make himself the accomplice of criminals.”
“I don’t want to believe it, but what else are we to believe?”
“I hope he can explain.”