"That is indeed a positive test. I am glad you received what you wished for. The fee is ten dollars, madam."

Aunt Abby paid it willingly enough, and with Fibsy, took her departure.

On reaching home they found Alvord Hendricks there. Mason Elliott had tarried and Fleming Stone, too, was still there. Eunice was awaiting Aunt Abby's return to have dinner served.

"I thought you'd never come, Auntie," said Eunice, greeting her warmly. Eunice was in a most pleasant mood, and seemed to have become entirely reconciled to the presence of Stone.

"You will dine here, too, Terence," she said kindly to the boy, who replied, "Yes, ma'am," very respectfully.

"Well, Eunice," Aunt Abby announced, after they were seated at the table, "I'm the criminal, after all."

"You seem pretty cheerful about it," said Hendricks, looking at her in astonishment.

"Well, I wasn't responsible. I did it under compulsory hypnotism."

"You owned up to it before, Aunt Abby," said Eunice, humoring her; "you said—"

"I know, Eunice, but that time it was to shield you. Now, I know for certain that I did do it, and how it came about."

"Dear Aunt Abby," and Elliott spoke very gently, "don't you talk about it any more. Your vagaries are tolerated by us, who love you, but Mr. Stone is bored by them—"

"Not at all," said Fleming Stone; "on the contrary, I'm deeply interested. Tell me all about it, Miss Ames. Where have you been?"

Thus encouraged, Aunt Abby told all.

She described the seance truthfully, Fibsy's bright eyes—not lack-luster now—darting glances at her and at Stone as the tale proceeded.

"He was the real thing—wasn't he, McGuire?" Miss Ames appealed to him, at last.

"You bet! Why, if the side wire of his beard hadn't fetched loose and if his walnut juice complexion hadn't stopped a mite short of his collar, I'd a took him for a sure-fire Oriental!"

"Don't be so impertinent, Terence," reproved Stone; "Miss Ames knows better than you do."

"It doesn't matter that he was made up that way," Aunt Abby said, serenely; "they often do that. But he was genuine, I know, because—why, Eunice, what did Sanford use to call me—for fun —Aunt what?"

"Aunt Westminter Abbey," said Eunice, smiling at the recollection.

"Yes!" triumphantly; "and that's what Sanford called me to-day when speaking to me through the medium. Isn't that a proof? How could that man know that?"

"I can't explain that," declared Elliott, a little shortly, "but it's all rubbish, and I don't think you ought to be allowed to go to such places! It's disgraceful—"

"You hush up, Mason," Miss Ames cried; "I'll go where I like! I'm not a child. And, too, I wasn't alone—I had an escort—a very nice one." She looked kindly at Fibsy.

"Thank you, ma'am," he returned, bobbing his funny red head. "I sure enjoyed myself."

"You didn't look so; you looked half asleep."

"I always enjoy myself when I'm asleep—and half a loaf is better'n no bed," the boy grinned at her.

"Well, it may all be rubbish," Alvord Hendricks said, musingly; "and it probably is—but there are people, Mason, who don't think so. Anyway, here's my idea. If Aunt Abby thinks she poisoned Sanford, under hypnotism—or any other way—for the love of heaven, let it go at that! If you don't—suspicion will turn back to Eunice again—and that's what we want to prevent. Now, no jury would ever convict an old lady—"

"Nor any woman," said Elliott. "But that isn't the whole thing. I say, Alvord, since Mr. Stone is on the job, suppose we give him full swing—and let him find the real murderer. It wasn't Eunice!"

His words rang out so vibrantly that Stone gave him a quick glance. "You're sure?" he asked, as it seemed, involuntarily.

"I am," responded Elliott, with a satisfied nod of his handsome head.

"But your being sure doesn't help much, Mason," Eunice said, a despondent look coming into her eyes. "Are you sure, Mr. Stone?"

"I can't quite answer that question yet, Mrs, Embury," the courteous voice replied. "Remember, I've only just begun to look into the matter."

"But you know all about it—from Mr. Shane and Mr. Driscoll."

"I know what they think about it—but that's a different story."

"You don't agree with their deductions, then?" asked Hendricks.

"I don't agree with their premises—therefore—" Stone smiled cryptically, and left the sentence unfinished and ambiguous, which was his deliberate intention.

"We will have coffee in the living-room," said Eunice, as she rose from the table. Always a charming hostess, she was at her best to-night. Her thin black gown was becoming and made her fair throat and arms seem even whiter by contrast.

She stood back, as the others left the room, and Hendricks, tarrying, too, came close to her.

"Brace up, dear," he said; "it will all come out right. I'm sorry Elliott dragged in this Stone, but—it will be all right, somehow."

"But it's all so mysterious, Alvord. I don't know what to do—or say—"

"Don't lose your temper, Eunice. Let me advise you strongly as to that. It never does any good—it militates against you. And here's another thing—Are you afraid of the little Desternay?"

"Afraid—how?" but Eunice paled.

"Afraid—she knows something—oh, something injurious to—"

"To me? She knows heaps!" The haughty head tossed, and Eunice looked defiant.

"You beauty!" and Hendricks took a step nearer. "Oh, you splendid thing! How I adore you. Eunice—you are a goddess to-night! And you are for me! Some day—oh, I'm not going to say it now—-don't look so alarmed—but, you know—oh, Sweet, you know! And you yes, you, too, my splendid Tiger—"'

"Hush, Alvord! Never call me that!"

"No, I beg pardon. And I don't want to. That was San's own name for you. I shall call you my Queen! My glorious Queen-woman!"

"Oh, stop! Don't you dare make love to me!

"And don't you dare say 'dare' to me! I dare all—"

Ferdinand's entrance cut short this dialogue, and Eunice and Hendricks went into the other room.

Almost immediately a visitor was announced,, and Hanlon came in.

"Why, Mr. Hanlon," Eunice said, greeting him cordially, "I'm glad to see you again."

"So am I," cried Aunt Abby, hastening to welcome the newcomer. "Oh, Mr. Hanlon, I went to see your man—Mr. Marigny, you know—"

"Yes? I called to see if you had found him all right."

The necessary introductions were made, and Hanlon took his place in the group.

He was a little ill at ease, for he was by no means a member of "society," and though he had been at the Embury house before, he seemed a trifle in awe of his surroundings.

"And I called, too," Hanlon said, "to offer you my respectful sympathy, Mrs, Embury, and ask if there's anything I can do for you."

"Why, you're very kind," said Eunice, touched by his thoughtfulness, "but I'm afraid there's nothing you—anybody can do for me."

"F. Stone can," declared Fibsy; "he can do a lot for you, Mrs, Embury." The red head nodded vigorously, as was the boy's habit, when much in earnest.

Hanlon regarded him closely, and Fibsy returned the scrutiny.

"Say," the boy broke out, suddenly. "I've seen you before. You're the man who found the hidden jackknife, in Newark!"

"The same," and Hanlon smiled at him. "Were you present?"

"I sure was! Gee! You're a wonder!"

"I was a wonder, but I don't do wonderful things any more."

"What do you do now?"

"Yes," chimed in Eunice, "what are you doing, Mr. Hanlon? You told me you were going to take up a different line of work."

"I did, Mrs, Embury; I'm a prosaic and uninteresting painter man nowadays."

"An artist?"

"In a way," and Hanlon smiled; "I paint signs—and I try to do them artistically."

"Signs! How dull for you—after your exciting performances!"

"Not so very dull," interrupted Aunt Abby. "I know about the signs Mr. Hanlon paints! They're bigger'n a house! They're —why, they're scenery—don't you know?—like you see along the railroad—I mean along the meadows when you're riding in the cars."

"Oh, scenic advertising," observed Fleming Stone. "And signs on the Palisades—"

"Not on the natural scenery," laughed Hanlon. "Though I've been tempted by high rocks or smooth-sided crags."

"Are you a steeple-jack?" asked Fibsy, his eyes sparkling; "can you paint spires and things?"

"No;" and Hanlon looked at the boy, regretfully. "I can't do that. I'm no climber. I make the signs and then they're put where they belong by other workmen."

"Oh," and Fibsy looked disappointed at not finding the daring hero he sought for.

"I must not presume further on your kindness, Mrs, Embury," Hanlon said, with an attempt at society jargon, "I merely called in for a minute. Mr. Hendricks, are you going my way? I want to see you about that sign-"

"No, Hanlon—sorry, but I'm not going now," and Hendricks shook his head. "I'm here for the evening."

"All right see you later, then. Where can I find you? I'm something of an owl, myself."

"I'll call you up after I get home—if it isn't too late," Hendricks suggested.

"Never too late for me. See that you remember."

Hanlon looked at Hendricks with more seriousness than the subject appeared to call for, then he went away.

"You got the earache?" asked Fibsy suddenly, of Hendricks, as that gentleman half absently rubbed his ear.

"Bless my soul, no! What do you mean by such a question? Mr. Stone, this boy of yours is too fresh!"

"Be quiet, Terence," said Stone, paying but slight attention to the matter.

"Oh, all right, no offense meant," and the boy grinned at Hendricks. "But didn't you ever have an earache? If not, you don't know what real sufferin' is!"

"No, I never had it, that I remember. Perhaps as a child—"

"Why, Alvord," said Aunt Abby, "you had it fearfully about a month ago. Don't you recollect? You were afraid of mastoiditis."

"Oh, that. Well, that was a serious illness. I was thinking of an ordinary earache, when I said I never had one. But I beg of you drop the subject of my ailments! What a thing to discuss!"

"True enough," agreed Stone, "I propose we keep to the theme under consideration. I've been engaged to look into this murder mystery. I'm here for that purpose. I must insist that I conduct my investigation in my own way."

"That's the right talk," approved Elliott. "Now, Mr. Stone, let's get right down to it."

"Very well, the case stands thus: Shane says—and it's perfectly true—there are five possible suspects. But only one of these had both motive and opportunity. Now, the whole five are here present, and, absurd though it my seem, I'm going to ask each one of you the definite question. Ferdinand," he raised his voice and the butler came in from the dining-room, "did you kill your master?"

"No, God hearing me—I didn't, sir." The man was quiet and composed, though his face was agonized.

"That will do, you may go," said Stone. "Mr. Elliott, did you kill your friend—your partner in business?"

"I did not," said Elliott, curtly. He was evidently ill-pleased at the question.

"Mr. Hendricks, did you?"

"As I have repeatedly proved, I was in Boston that night. It would be impossible for me to be the criminal—but I will answer your ridiculous query—I did not."

"Mrs, Embury, did you?"

"N—no—but I would rather be suspected, than to have—"

"You said no, I believe," Stone interrupted her. "Miss Ames, do you really think you killed your niece's husband?"

"Oh, sir—I don't know! I can't think I did—"

"Of course, you didn't, Aunt Abby!" Mason Elliott rose from his seat and paced up and down the room. "I must say, Mr. Stone, this is a childish performance! What makes you think any of us would say so, if we had killed Embury? It is utterly absurd!"

"You're absurd, Elliott," cut in Hendricks. "Mr. Stone is a psychologist. He learns what he wants to know not from what we say—but the way we say it. Right, Mr. Stone?"

"Right, Mr. Hendricks." Stone looked grave. "Anything more to say, Mr. Elliott?"

"Yes, I have! And it's this: I asked you to come here. I asked you to take this case—as you've already surmised—to free Mrs, Embury from wrongful suspicion. Wrongful, mind you! I do not want you to clear her if she is guilty. But she isn't. Therefore, I want you to find the real criminal. That's what I want!"

"And that's what I'm doing."

"Of course he is," Eunice defended him. "I wish you'd keep still, Mason! You talk too much—and you interfere with Mr. Stone's methods."

"Perhaps I'd better go home, Eunice." Elliott was clearly offended. "If you don't want me here, I'll go."

"Oh, no—" Eunice began, but Hendricks said, "Go on, Elliott, do. There are too many of us here, and as Eunice's counsel, I can look after her interests."

Mason Elliott rose, and turned to Eunice.

"Shall I go?" he said, and he gave her a look of entreaty—a look of yearning, pleading love.

"Go," she said, coldly. "Alvord will take care of me."

And Elliott went.



CHAPTER XVI

FIBSY'S BUSY DAY

"It's this way, F. Stone," said Fibsy, earnestly, "the crooks of the situation—"

"The what?"

"The crooks—that's what they call it—"

"Oh, the crux." Stone did not laugh.

"Yessir—if that's how you pronounce it. Guess I'll stick to plain English. Well, to my way of thinkin', the little joker in the case is that there raspberry jam. I'm a strong believer in raspberry jam on general principles, but in pertikler, I should say in this present case, raspberry jam will win the war! Don't eat it!"

"Thought you were going to talk plain English. You're cryptic, my son."

"All right—here goes. That jam business is straight goods. The old lady says she tasted jam—and she did taste jam. That's all there is about that. And that sweet, pleasant, innercent raspberry jam will yet send the moiderer of Mr. Embury to the chair!"

"I think myself there's something to be looked into there, but how are you going about it?"

"Dunno yet—but here's another thing, Mr. Stone, that I ain't had time to tell you yet, that—"

"Suppose you begin at the beginning and tell me your story in order."

"Supposin' I do!" Fibsy thought a moment before he began. It was the morning after the two had dined at the Embury home, and they were breakfasting together in Stone's hotel apartment.

"Well, Mr. Stone, as you know, I left Mrs, Embury's last night d'eckly after Mr. Hendricks took his deeparture. As I s'pected, there was trouble a-waitin' for him just outside the street doorway, that Hanlon chap was standing and he met up with Mr. Hendricks—much to the dismay of the latter!"

"Your English is fine this morning—go ahead."

"Well—Hanlon fell into step like with Mr. Henricks, and they walked along, Hanlon doing the talking. I didn't dare get close enough to overhear them, for they're both live wires, and I don't fool either of 'em into thinking meself a ninkypoop! So I trailed, but well out'a sight—and, hold on, Mr. Stone, while I tell you this. The fake mejum that Miss Ames went to see yesterday afternoon, was none other than friend Hanlon himself!"

"What? Fibs, are you sure?"

"Sure as shootin'! I spotted him the minute he came up to Mrs, Embury's. I didn't reckernize him at first as the whiskered Moses, but I did later. You know, Mr. Stone, I saw him do stunts for newspapers in two towns, and I wonder I didn't tumble to him in the spookshop. But I didn't—I dessay because when I saw him doing his mind-readin' tricks outdoors he was blindfolded, which some concealed his natural scenery. Well, he hadn't more'n tripped over the Embury 'Welcome' mat, than I was onto him. Me thinker woiked light lightnin' and I had him ticketed and pigeonholed in no time."

"Is he mixed up in the Embury case?"

"He's mixed up with Mr. Hendricks in some way, and he learned from Miss Ames that Hendricks was to be among those present, so he made up foolish excuses and betook himself to the vicinity of said Hendricks."

"Why?"

"Wanted to converse with him, and couldn't get hold of him otherwise. Hendricks, it would seem, didn't hanker for said conversation."

"I remember Hanlon asked Mr. Hendricks if he were going his way, and Hendricks said he was going to spend the evening where he was."

"Egg-zackly. And did. But all the same, Hanlon waited. And a wait of an hour and a half registers patience and perseverance —to my mind."

"Right you are! And you trailed the pair?"

"Did I?" Fibsy fell back in his chair, as if exhausted. "I followed them to Mr. Hendricks' home, they chatterin' glibly all the way—and then after a few minutes' further remarks on the doorstep Hendricks, he went in—and Hanlon—! You know, Mr. Stone, Hanlon's nobody's fool, and he knew I was follerin' him as well as he knew his name! I don't know how he knew it—for I was most careful to keep out'a sight, but all the same, he did know it—and what do you think he did? He led me a chase of miles —and miles—and miles! That's what he did!"

"On purpose?"

"On purpose! Laughin' in his silly sleeve! I was game. I trotted along—but bullieve me! I was mad! And the galoot was so slick about it! Why, he walked up Broadway first—as if he had a business appointment in a desprit hurry. Then, having reached Hunderd an' Twenty-fi'th Street, he pauses a minute—to be sure I'm trailin', the vilyun and then, he swings East, and across town, and turns South again—oh, well, Mr. Stone, he simpully makes me foller him till I'm that dog-tired, I near drops in my tracks. And, to top the heap, he leads me straight to this hotel, where we're stayin'—yes, sir! right here—and makin' a sharp turn, he says, 'Good-night!' pleasant like, and scoots off. Can you beat it?"

"Poor old Fibs, that was an experience! Looks like the Hanlon person is one to be reckoned with. But it doesn't prove him mixed up in the murder mystery in any way."

"No, sir, it don't. It's only made me sore on him—and sore on my own account, too!" Fibsy grinned ruefully. "Me feet's that blistered—and I'm lame all over!"

"Poor boy! You see, he's a sprinter from 'way back. His stunts on that newspaper work prove he can take long walks without turning a hair."

"Yes, but its croolty to animiles to drag a young feller like me along, too. I've got his number. Just you wait, Cele! Remember, Mr. Stone, he played spook-catcher to Miss Ames. That means something, sir."

"It does, indeed. This is a great old case, Fibsy. Are you getting a line on it?"

"I think so, sir," and the lad looked very earnest. "Are you?"

"A strange one. But, yet, a line. To-day, Fibs, I want you to interview that Mrs, Desternay. You can do it better than I, jolly her along, and find out if she's fried or foe of Mrs, Embury."

"Yessir. An' kin I do a little sleuthin' on my own?"

"What sort?"

"Legitermit—I do assure you, sir."

When Fibsy assumed this deeply earnest air, Stone knew some clever dodge was in his mind, and he found it usually turned out well, so he said, "Go ahead, my boy; I trust you."

"Thank yer," and Fibsy devoted himself to the remainder of his breakfast, while Stone read the morning paper.

An hour later Terence McGuire presented himself at the Embury home and asked for Miss Ames.

"Good morning, ma'am," he said, as he smiled brightly at her. "Howlja like to join me in a bit of investergation that'll proberly end up in a s'lution of the mystery?"

"I'd like it first rate," replied Miss Ames, with enthusiasm. "When do we begin?"

"Immejitly. Where's Mis' Embury?"

"In her room."

"No use a-disturbin' her, but I want'a see the jersey—the gymnasium jersey your ghost wore."

Aunt Abby looked disappointed. She had hoped for something more exciting.

But she said, "I'll get it," and went at once to Sanford Embury's room.

"Thank you," said Fibsy, as he took it. But his eager scrutiny failed to disclose any trace of jam on its sleeves.

"Which arm did you bite?" he asked, briefly.

"I didn't really bite at all," Miss Ames returned. "I sort of made a snap at him—it was more a nervous gesture than an intelligent action. And I just caught a bit of the worsted sleeve between my lips for an instant—it was, let me see—it must have been the left arm—"

"Well, we'll examine both sleeves—and I regret to state, ma'am, there's no sign of sticky stuff. This is a fine specimen of a jersey—I never saw a handsomer one—but there's no stain on it, and never has been."

"Nor has it ever been cleaned with gasoline," mused Miss Ames, "and yet, McGuire, nothing, to my dying day, can ever convince me that I am mistaken on those two subjects. I'm just as sure as I can be."

"I'm sure, too. Listen here, Miss Ames. There's a great little old revelation due in about a: day or so, and I wish you'd lay low. Will you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why, don't do or say much about the affair. Let it simmer. I'm on the warpath, and so's Mr. Stone, and we're comin' out on top, if we don't have no drawbacks. So, don't trot round to clarviants or harp on that there 'vision' of yours, will you?"

"My boy, I'm only too glad to keep away from the subject. I'm worried to death with it all. And if I can't do any good by my efforts, I'll willingly 'lay low' as you ask."

"All right, ma'am. Now, I'm off, and I'll be back here when I come again. So long."

Fibsy went down in the service elevator and forthwith proceeded to interview the rubbish man of the house and some other functionaries.

By dint of much prodding of memory, assisted by judicious silver offerings, he finally learned that there was an apartment occupied by a couple with four children, who, it appeared, consumed large quantities of jam of all flavors. At least, their rubbish was bristling with empty jam pots, and the deduction was logical.

Seemingly unimpressed, Fibsy declared it was pickle-fiends he was searching for, and departed, outwardly crestfallen, but inwardly elated.

Going out of doors, he walked to the corner of Park Avenue, and turned into the side street.

Crossing that street to get a better view, he looked up the side of the big apartment house, and his gaze paused at the window in the tenth story which was in Miss Ames' sleeping-room. Two floors below this was the apartment of the family who were reputed jam eaters.

Fibsy looked intently at all the windows. The one next Miss Ames' was, he knew, in the Embury's pantry. Hence, the one two stories below was in the Patterson's pantry the Patterson being the aforesaid family.

And to the boy's astonished and delighted eyes, there on the pantry window-sill sat what was unmistakably a jam jar!

So far, so good. But what did it mean? Fibsy had learned that Mr. Patterson was a member of the Metropolitan Athletic Club and was greatly interested in its presidential election—which election, owing to the death of one of the candidates had been indefinitely postponed.

But further investigation of Mr. Patterson was too serious a matter for the boy to undertake. It must be referred to Fleming Stone.

So Fibsy glued his eyes once more to that fascinating jam jar up on the eighth-story window-sill, and slowly walked away.

Under his breath he was singing, "Raz Berry Jam! Raz Berry Jam!'—" to the tune of a certain march from Lohengrin, which somehow represented to his idea the high note of triumph.

He proceeded along the cross street, and at Fifth Avenue he entered a bus.

His next errand took him to the home of Fifi Desternay.

By some ingenious method of wheedling, he persuaded the doorman to acquaint the lady with the fact of his presence, and when she came into the room where he awaited her he banked on his nerve to induce her to grant him an interview.

"You know me," he said, with his most ingratiating smile, and he even went so far as to take her beringed little hand in his own boyish paw.

"I do not!" she declared, staring at him, and then, his grin proving infectious, she added, not unkindly, "Who are you, child?"

"I wish I was a society reporter or a photographer, or anybody who could do justice to your wonderful charms!"

His gaze of admiration was so sincere that Fifi couldn't resent it.

She often looked her best in the morning, and her dainty negligee and bewitching French cap made her a lovely picture.

She tucked herself into a big, cushioned chair, and drawing a smoking-stand nearer, fussed with its silver appointments.

"Lemme, ma'am," said Fibsy, eagerly, and, though it was his first attempt, he held a lighted match to her cigarette with real grace.

Then, drawing a long breath of relief at his success, he took a cigarette himself, and sat near her.

"Well," she began, "what's it all about? And, do tell me how you got in! I'm glad you did, though it was against orders. I've not seen anything so amusing as you for a long time!"

"This is my amusin' day," returned the boy, imperturbably. "I came to talk over things in general—"

"And what in particular?"

Fifi was enjoying herself. She felt almost sure the boy was a reporter of a new sort, but she was frankly curious.

"Well, ma'am," and here Fibsy changed his demeanor to a stern, scowling fierceness, "I'm a special investigator." He rose now, and strode about the room. "I'm engaged on the Embury murder case, and I'm here to ask you a few pointed questions about it."

"My heavens!" cried Fifi, "what are you talking about?"

"Don't scoff at me, ma'am; I'm in authority."

"Oh, well, go ahead. Why are you questioning me?"

"It's this way, ma'am." Fibsy sat down astride a chair, looking over the back of it at his hostess. "You and Mrs, Embury are bosom friends, I understand."

"From whom do you understand it?" was the tart response; "from Mrs, Embury?"

"In a manner o' speakin', yes; and then again, no. But aren't you?"

"We were. We were school friends, and have been intimates for years. But since her—trouble, Mrs, Embury has thrown me over —has discarded me utterly—I'm so sorry!"

Fifi daintily touched her eyes with a tiny square of monogrammed linen, and Fibsy said, gravely,

"Careful, there; don't dab your eyelashes too hard!"

"What!" Mrs, Desternay could scarcely believe her ears.

"Honest, you'd better look out. It's coming off now."

"Nothing of the sort," and Fifi whipped out a vanity case, and readjusted her cosmetic adornment.

"Then I take it you two are not friends?"

"We most certainly are not. I wouldn't do anything in the world to injure Eunice Embury—in fact, I'd help her, even now—though she scorned my assistance—but we're not friends—no!"

"All right, I just wanted to know. Ask right out—that's my motto."

"It seems to be! Anything else you are thirsting to learn?"

"Yes'm. You know that 'Hamlet' performance—you and Mis' Embury went to?"

"Yes," said Fifi, cautiously.

"You know you accused her of talkin' it over with you—"

"She did!"

"Yes'm—I know you say she did—I got that from Mr. Shane—but, lemme tell you, ma'am, friendly like, you want to be careful how you tell that yarn—'cause they's chance fer a perfectly good slander case against you!"

"What nonsense!" but Fifi paled a little under her delicate rouge.

"No nonsense whatsomever. But here's the point. Was there a witness to that conversation?"

"Why, let me see. We talked it over at the matinee—we were alone then—but, yes, of course—I recollect now—that same evening Eunice was here and Mr. Hendricks was, too, and Mr. Patterson—he lives in their apartment house—the Embury's, I mean-and we all talked about it! There! I guess that's witnesses enough!"

"I guess it is. But take it from me, lady, you're too pretty to get into a bothersome lawsuit—and I advise you to keep on the sunny side of the street, and let these shady matters alone."

"I'll gladly do so—honest, I don't want to get Eunice in bad—"

"Oh, no! we all know you don't want to get her in bad—unless it can be done with abserlute safety to your own precious self. Well—it can't, ma'am. You keep on like you've begun—and your middle name'll soon be trouble! Good morning, ma'am."

Fibsy rose, bowed and left the room so suddenly that Fifi hadn't time to stop him if she had wanted to. And he left behind him a decidedly scared little woman.

Fibsy then went straight to the offices of Mason Elliott.

He was admitted and given an audience at once.

"What is it, McGuire?" asked the broker.

"A lot of things, Mr. Elliott. First of all—I suppose the police are quite satisfied with the alibis of you and Mr. Hendricks?"

"Yes," and Elliott looked curiously into the grave, earnest little face. He had resented, at first, the work of this boy, but after Fleming Stone had explained his worth, Elliott soon began to see it for himself.

"They are unimpeachable," he went on; "I was at home, and Mr. Hendricks was in Boston. This has been proved over and over by many witnesses, both authentic and credible."

"Yes," Fibsy nodded. "I'm sure of it, too. And, of course, that lets you two out. Now, Mr. Elliott, the butler didn't do it F. Stone says that's a self-evident fact. Bringin' us back—as per usual to the two ladies. But, Mr. Elliott, neither of those ladies did it."

"Bless you, my boy, that's my own opinion, of course, but how can we prove it?"

Fibsy deeply appreciated the "we" and gave the speaker a grateful smile.

"There you are, Mr. Elliott, how can we? Mr. Stone, as you know, is the cleverest detective in the world, but he's no magician. He can't find the truth, if the truth is hidden in a place he can't get at."

"Have you any idea, McGuire, who the murderer was?"

"No, sir, I haven't. But I've an idea where to get an idea. And I want you to help me."

"Surely—that goes without saying."

"You'd do anything for Mrs, Embury, wouldn't you?"

"Anything." The simple assertion told the whole story, and Fibsy nodded with satisfaction.

"Then tell me truly, sir, please, wasn't Mr. Embury a—a—a—"

"Careful there—he's dead, you know."

"Yes, I know—but it's necessary, sir. Wasn't he a—I don't know the right term, but wasn't he a money-grabber?"

"In what way?" Elliott spoke very gravely.

You know best, sir. He was your partner—had been for some years. But—on the side, now—didn't he do this? Lend money-sorta personally, you know—on security."

"And if he did?"

"Didn't he demand big security—didn't he get men—his friends even—in his power—and then come down on 'em—oh, wasn't he a sort of a loan shark?"

"Where did you get all this?"

"I put together odds and ends of talk I've heard—and it must be so. That Mr. Patterson, now—"

"Patterson! What do you know of him?"

"Nothing, but that he owed Mr. Embury a lot, and his household stuff was the collateral—and—"

"Were did you learn that? I insist on knowing!"

"Servants' gossip, sir. I picked it up in the apartment house. He and the Emburys live in the same one, you know."

"McGuire, you are on a wrong trail. Mr. Embury may have lent money to his friends—may have had collateral security from them —probably did—but that's nothing to do with his being killed. And as it is a blot on his memory, I do not want the matter made public."

"I understand that, Mr. Elliott—neither do I. But sposin' the discovery of the murderer hinges on that very thing—that very branch of Mr. Embury's business—then mustn't it be looked into?"

"Perhaps it—must—but not by you."

"No, sir, By F. Stone."



CHAPTER XVII

HANLON'S AMBITION

An important feature of Fleming Stone's efficiency was his ability to make use of the services of others. In the present case, he skilfully utilized both Shane and Driscoll's energies, and received their reports—diplomatically concealing the fact that he was making tools of them, and letting them infer that he was merely their co-worker.

Also, he depended greatly on Fibsy's assistance. The boy was indefatigable, and he did errands intelligently, and made investigations with a minute attention to details, that delighted the heart of his master.

Young McGuire had all the natural attributes of a detective, and under the tuition of Fleming Stone was advancing rapidly.

When assisting Stone on a case, the two usually lived together at some hotel, Stone going back and forth between there and his own home, which was now in a Westchester suburb.

It was part of the routine that the two should breakfast together and plan the day's work. These breakfasts were carefully arranged meals, with correct appointments, for Stone had the boy's good at heart, and was glad to train him in deportment for his own sake; but also, he desired that Fibsy should be presentable in any society, as the pursuit of the detective calling made it often necessary that the boy should visit in well-conducted homes.

Fibsy was, therefore, eating his breakfast after the most approved formula, when Stone said, "Well, Fibs, how about Sykes and Barton? Now for the tale of your call on Willy Hanlon yesterday."

"I went down there, Mr. Stone, but I didn't see Hanlon. He was out. But I did a lot better. I saw Mr. Barton, of Sykes and Barton, and I got an earful! It seems friend Willy has ambitions."

"In what line?"

"Upward! Like the gentleman in the poetry-book, he wants to go higher, higher, ever higher—"

"Aeroplane?"

"No, not that way—steeplejack."

"Painting spires?"

"Not only spires, but signs in high places—dangerous places-and, you know, Mr. Stone, he told us—that day at the Embury house —that he didn't climb—that he painted signs, and let other people put them up."

"Yes; well? What of it?"

"Only this: why did he try to deceive us? Why, Mr. Barton says he's a most daring climber—he's practicing to be a human fly."

"A human fly? Is that a new circus stunt?"

"You know what I mean. You've seen a human fly perform, haven't you?"

"Oh, that chap who stood on his head on the coping of the Woolworth Building to get contributions for the Red Cross work? Yes, I remember. He wasn't Hanlon, was he?"

"No, sir; he was the original—or one of the first ones. There are lots of human flies, now. They cut up tricks all over the country. And Willy Hanlon is practicing for that but he doesn't want it known."

"All right, I won't tell. His guilty secret is safe with me!"

"Now, you're laughing at me, Mr. Stone! All right just you wait —and Hanlon goes around on a motor-cycle, too!"

"He does! Then we are undone! What a revelation! And, now, Fibs, if you'll explain to me the significance of Hanlon's aspiring ambitions and his weird taste for motor-cycles, I'll be obliged."

Fibsy was extremely, even absurdly, sensitive to irony. Sometimes it didn't affect him seriously, and then, again, he would be so hurt and embarrassed by it, that it fairly made him unable to talk.

In this instance, it overcame him utterly, and his funny little freckled face turned red, and his eyes lost their eagerness and showed only chagrin.

"Come, come," said Stone, regretting his teasing, but determined to help the boy overcome his sensitiveness to it, "brace up, Fibs; you know I meant no harm. Forgive a chap, can't you—and begin all over again. I know you have something in your noddle —and doubtless, something jolly well worth while."

"Well—I—oh, wait a minute, Mr. Stone—I'm a fool, but I can't help it. When you come at me like that, I lose all faith in my notions. For it's only a notion—and a crazy one at that, and —well, sir, you wait till I've worked it up a little further —and if there's anything to it—I'll expound. Now, what's my orders for to-day?"

Fibsy had an obstinate streak in his make-up, and Fleming Stone was too wise to insist on the boy's "expounding" just then.

Instead, he said, pleasantly: "To-day, Fibs, I want you to make a round of the drug stores. It's not a hopeful job—indeed, I can't think it can amount to anything—but have a try at it. You remember, Mr. Hendricks had the earache—"

"I do, indeed! He had it a month ago—and what's more, he denied it—at first."

"Yes; well, use your discretion for all it's worth—but get a line on the doctor that prescribed for him—it was a bad case, you know—and find out what he got to relieve him and where he got it."

"Yessir. Say, Mr. Stone, is Mr. Hendricks implicated, do you think?"

"In the murder? Why, he was in Boston at the time—a man can't be in two places at once, can he?"

"He cannot! He has a perfect alibi—hasn't he, Mr. Stone?"

"He sure has, Fibsy. And yet—he was in the party that discussed the possibilities of killing people by the henbane route."

"Yessir—but so was Mr. Patterson—Mis' Desternay said so."

"The Patterson business must be looked into. I'll attend to that to-day—I'll also see Mr. Elliott about that matter of personal loans that Mr. Embury seemed to be conducting as a side business."

"Yes, do, please. Mr. Stone, it would be a first-class motive, if Mr. Embury had a strangle-hold on somebody who owed him a whole lot and couldn't pay, and—"

"Fine motive, my boy—but how about opportunity? You forget those bolted doors."

"And Mr. Patterson had borrowed money of Mr. Embury—"

"How do you know that?"

"I heard it—oh, well, I got it from one of the footmen of the apartment house—"

"Footmen! What do you mean?"

"You know there's a lot of employees—porters, rubbish men, doormen, hallmen, pages and Lord knows what! I lump 'em all under the title of footmen. Anyway, one of those persons told me—for a consideration—a lot about the private affairs of the tenants. You know, Mr. Stone, those footmen pick up a lot of information—overhearing here and there—and from the private servants kept by the tenants."

"That's true, Fibs; there must be a mine of information available in that way."

"There is, sir. And I caught onto a good deal—and specially, I learned that Mr. Patterson is in the faction—or whatever you call it—that didn't want Mr. Embury to be president of that club."

"And so you think Mr. Patterson had a hand in the murder?"

Stone's face was grave, and there was no hint of banter in his tone, so Fibsy replied, earnestly, "Well, he is the man who has lots of empty jam jars go down in the garbage pails."

"But he has lots of children."

"Yes, sir—four. Oh, well, I suppose a good many people like raspberry jam."

"Go on, Fibsy; don't be discouraged. As I've often told you, one scrap of evidence is worth considering. A second, against the same man—is important—and a third, is decidedly valuable."

"Yessir, that's what I'm bankin' on. You see, Mr. Patterson, now—he's over head and ears in debt to Embury. He was against Embury for club president. He was present at the henbane discussion. And—he's an habitual buyer of raspberry jam."

"Some counts," and Fleming Stone looked thoughtful. "But not entirely convincing. How'd he get in?"

"You know his apartment is directly beneath the Embury apartment —but two floors below."

"Might as well be ten floors below. How could he get in?"

"Somebody got in, Mr. Stone. You know as well as I do, that neither Mrs, Embury nor Miss Ames committed that murder. We must face that."

"Nor did Ferdinand do it. I'll go you all those assumptions."

"All right, sir; then somebody got in from the outside."

"How?"

"Mr. Stone, haven't you ever read detective stories where a murder was committed in a room that was locked and double-locked and yet somebody did get in—and the fun of the story is guessing how he got in."

"Fiction, my boy, is one thing—fact is another."

"No, sir; they're one and the same thing!"

"All right, son; have it your own way. Now, if you're ready to get ready, skittle off to your chain of drug stores, and run down a henbane purchase by any citizen of this little old town, or adjacent boroughs."

Fibsy went off. He had recovered from the sense of annoyance at being chaffed by Stone, but it made him more resolved than ever to prove the strange theory he had formed. He didn't dignify his idea by the name of theory, but he was doggedly sticking to a notion which, he hoped, would bring forth some strange developments and speedily.

Laying aside his own plans for the moment, he went about Stone's business, and had little difficulty in finding the nearby druggist whom Hendricks frequently patronized.

"Alvord Hendricks? Sure he trades here," said the dapper young clerk. "He buys mostly shaving-cream and tooth-paste, but here's where he buys it."

"Righto! And, say, a month or so ago, he bought some hyoscine—"

"Oh, no, excuse me, he did not! That's not sold hit or miss. But maybe you mean hyoscyamine. That's another thing."

"Why, maybe I do. Look up the sale, can't you, and make sure."

"Why should I?"

Fibsy explained that in the interests of a police investigation it might be better to acquiesce than to question why, and the young man proved obliging.

So Terence McGuire learned that Alvord Hendricks bought some hyoscyamine, on a doctor's prescription, about a month ago—the same to be used to relieve a serious case of earache.

But there was no record of his having bought hyoscyarnus, which was the deadly henbane used in the medicine dropper-nor was there any other record of hyoscyamine against him.

Satisfied that he had learned all he could, Fibsy continued his round of drug-store visits, in an ever-widening circle, but got no information on any henbane sales whatever.

"Nothin' doin'," he told himself. "Whoever squirted that henbane from that squirter into that ear—brought said henbane from a distance, which, to my mind, indicates a far-seeing and intelligent reasoning power."

His present duty done, he started forth on his own tour of investigation. He went to a small boarding house, in an inconspicuous street, the address of which had been given him by Mr. Barton, and asked for Mr. Hanlon.

"He ain't home," declared the frowning landlady who opened the door.

"I know it," returned Fibsy, nonchalantly, "but I gotta go up to his room a minute. He sent me."

"How do I know that?"

"That's so, how do you?" Fibsy's grin was sociable. "Well, look here, I guess this'll fix it. I'm errand boy to—you know who—" he winked mysteriously, "to the man he takes his acrobat lessons off of."

"Oh," the woman looked frightened. "Hush up—it's all right. Only don't mention no names. Go on upstairs—third floor front."

"Yep," and Fibsy went quietly up the stairs.

Hanlon's room was not locked, but a big wardrobe inside was—and nothing else was of interest to the visitor. He picked at the lock with his knife, but to no avail.

As he stood looking wistfully at the wardrobe door, a cheerful voice sounded behind him:

"I'll open it for you—what do you want out of it?"

Fibsy looked up quickly, to see Hanlon himself, smiling at him. Quick to take a cue, the boy didn't show any embarrassment, but putting out his hand said, "How do you do, Mr. Hanlon?"

"Fine. How's yourself? And why the sneak visit, my boy?"

Fibsy looked his questioner square in the eye, and then said, "Oh, well, I s'pose I may as well speak right out."

"You sure may. Either tell the truth, or put up such a convincing lie that I'll think it's the truth. Go ahead."

"Here goes, then," Fibsy made a quick decision, that Hanlon was too keen to stand for any lie. "I'm engaged on the Embury murder case."

"I know that's true—though it's hard to believe."

Fibsy chose to ignore this dig, and went on. "I'm here because I want to see how you're mixed up in it."

"Oh, you do! Why not ask me?"

"All right, I ask you. How are you connected with the murder of Sanford Embury?"

"Will anything I say be used against me?" Hanlon's tone was jocular, but he was staring hard at Fibsy's face.

"If it's usable," was the nonchalant reply.

"Well, use it if you can. I'm mixed up in the matter, as you put it, because I'm trying to find the murderer on my own account."

"Why do you want the murderer on your own account?"

"I didn't agree to answer more than one question. But I will. I don't want the murderer particularly—but I'm interested in the case. I've the detective instinct myself—and I thought if I could track down the villain—I might get a reward—"

"Is there one offered?"

"Not that I know of—but I daresay either Mr. Elliott or Mr. Hendricks would willingly pay to have the murderer found."

"Why those two? Why not Mrs, Embury?"

"Innocent child! Those two are deeply, desperately, darkly in love with the—the widow."

"Let's leave her out of this!"

"Ha, ha! a squire of dames, eh? and at your age! All right —leave the lady's name out. But I've confessed my hidden purpose. Now tell me what brings you to my domicile, on false pretenses, and why do I find you on the point of breaking into my wardrobe?"

"Truth does it! I wanted to see if I could find a false beard and a white turban."

"Oh, you did! And what good would that do you? You have cleverly discerned that I assumed an innocent disguise, in order to give aid and comfort to a most worthy dame of advanced years."

"You did but why?"

"Are you Paul Pry? You'll drive me crazy with your eternal 'why?'"

"All right, go crazy, then—but, why?"

"The same old reason," and Hanlon spoke seriously. "I'm trying, as I said, to find the Embury murderer, and I contrived that session with the old lady in hopes of learning something to help me in finding him."

"And did you?"

"I learned that she is a harmless, but none the less, positively demented woman. I learned that she deceives herself—in a way, hypnotizes herself, and she believes she sees and hears things that she does not see and hear."

"And tastes them? and smells them?"

"There, too, she deceives herself. Surely, you don't take in that story of her 'vision'?"

"I believe she believes it."

"Yes, so do I. Now, look here, McGuire; I'm a good-natured sort, and I'm willing to overlook this raid of yours, if you'll join forces. I can help you, but only if you're frank and honest in whacking up with whatever info you have. I know something—you know something—will you go in cahoots?"

"I would, Mr. Hanlon," and Fibsy looked regretful, "if I was my own boss. But, you see, I'm under orders. I'm F. Stone's helper—and I'll tell you what he says I may—and that's all."

"That goes. I don't want any more than your boss lets you spill. And now, honest, what did you come here for?"

"To look in that wardrobe, as I said."

"Why, bless your heart, child, you're welcome to do that."

Hanlon drew a key from his pocket, and flung the wardrobe door wide.

"There you are—go to it!"

Swiftly, but methodically, Fibsy took down every article of wearing apparel the wardrobe contained, glanced at it and returned it, Hanlon looking on with an amused expression on his face.

"Any incriminating evidence?" he said at last, as Fibsy hung up the final piece of clothing.

"Not a scrap," was the hearty reply. "If I don't get more evidence offen somebody else than I do from you, I'll go home empty-handed!"

"Let me help you," and Hanlon spoke kindly; "I'll hunt evidence with you."

"Some day, maybe. I've got to-day all dated up. And, say, why did you tell me you wasn't a steeplejack painter, when you are?"

"You're right, I am. But I don't want it known, because I'm going to branch out in a new field soon, and I don't want that advertised at present."

"I know, Mr. Barton told me. You're going to be a human fly, and cut up pranks on the edges of roofs of skyscrapers—"

"Hush, not so loud. Yes, I am, but the goal is far distant. But I'm going to have a whack at it—and I know I can succeed, in time."

Hanlon's eyes had a faraway, hopeful look, as if gazing into a future of marvelous achievement in his chosen field. "Oh, I say, boy, it's glorious, this becoming expert in something difficult. It pays for all the work and training and practice!"

The true artist ambition rang in his voice, and Fibsy gazed at him fascinated, for the boy was a hero-worshipper, and adored proficiency in any art.

"When you going to exhibit?" he asked eagerly.

"A little try at it next week. Want'a come?"

"Don't I. Where?"

"Hush! I'll whisper. Philadelphia."

"I'll be there! Lemme 'no the date and all."

"Yes, I will. Must you go? Here's your hat."

Fibsy laughed, took the hint and departed.

"What a feller!" he marveled to himself, as he went on his way. "Oh, gee! what a feller!"



CHAPTER XVIII

THE GUILTY ONE

"Alvord, you shock me—you amaze me! How dare you talk to me of love, when my husband hasn't been dead a fortnight?"

"What matter, Eunice? You never really loved Sanford—"

"I did—I did!"

"Not lately, anyhow. Perhaps just at first—and then, not deeply. He carried you originally by storm—it was an even toss-up whether he or Elliott or I won out. He was the most forceful of the three, and he made you marry him—didn't he now?"

"Don't talk nonsense. I married Sanford of my own free will—"

"Yes, and in haste, and repented at leisure. Now, don't be hypocritical, and pretend to grieve for him. His death was shocking—fearful—but you're really relieved that he is gone. Why not admit it?"

"Alvord, stop such talk! I command you! I won't listen!"

"Very well, dearest, I'll stop it. I beg your pardon—I forgot myself, I confess. Now, let me atone. I love you, Eunice, and I'll promise not to tell you so, or to talk about it now, if you'll just give me a ray of hope—a glimmer of anticipation. Will you—sometime—darling, let me tell you of my love? After such an interval as you judge proper? Will you, Eunice?"

"No, I will not! I don't love you—I never did and never can love you! How did you ever get such an idea into your head?"

The beautiful face expressed surprise and incredulity, rather than anger, and Eunice's voice was gentle. In such a mood, she was even more attractive than in her more vivacious moments.

Unable to control himself, Hendricks took a step toward her, and folded her in his arms.

She made no effort to disengage herself, but said, in a tone of utter disdain, "Let me go, Alvord; you bore me."

As she had well known, this angered him far more than angry words would have done.

He released her instantly, but his face was blazing with indignation.

"Oh, I do—do I? And who can make love to you, and not bore you? Elliott?"

"You are still forgetting yourself."

"I am not! I am thinking of myself only. Oh, Eunice—dear Eunice, I have loved you so long and I have been good. All the time you were Sanford's wife, I never so much as called you 'dear'—never gave you even a look that wasn't one o f respect for my friend's wife. But now—now, that you are free—I have a right to woo you. It is too soon—yes, I know that—but I will wait—wait as long as you command, if you'll only promise me that I may—sometime—"

"Never! I told you that before—I do not want to be obliged to repeat it! Please understand, once for all, I have no love to give you—"

"Because it is another's! Eunice—tell me you do not care for Elliott—and I won't say another word—now. I'll wait patiently —for a year—two years—as long as you wish—only give me the assurance that you will not marry Mason Elliott."

"You are impossible! How dare you speak to me of my marriage with anybody, when my husband is only just dead? One word more, Alvord, on the subject, and I shall forbid you my house!"

"All right, my lady! Put on your high and mighty air, if you choose—but before you marry that man—make sure that he did not himself prepare the way for the wedding!"

"What do you mean? Are you accusing Mason of—"

"I make no accusations. But—who did kill Sanford? I know you didn't do it—and Elliott has engaged Stone to prove that you didn't. It is absurd, we all know, to suspect Aunt Abby—I was out of town—who is left but Mason?"

"Hush! I won't listen to, such a suggestion! Mason was at his home that night."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course, I'm sure! And I don't have to have it proved by a detective either! And now, Alvord Hendricks, you may go! I don't care to talk to anyone who can make such a contemptible accusation against a lifelong friend!"

But before Hendricks left, Elliott himself came in.

He was grave and preoccupied. He bowed a little curtly to Hendricks, and, as he took Eunice's hand, he said, "May I see you alone? I want to talk over some business matters—and I'm pressed for time."

"Oh, all right," Hendricks said, "I can take a hint. I'm going. How's your sleuth progressing, Elliott? Has Mr. Stone unearthed the murderer yet?"

"Not yet—but soon," and Elliott essayed to pass the subject off lightly.

"Very soon?" Hendricks looked at him in a curious manner.

"Very soon, I think."

"That's interesting. Would it be indiscreet to ask in what direction one must look for the criminal?"

"It would very." Elliott smiled a little. "Now run along, Hendricks, that's a good chap. I've important business matters to talk over with Eunice."

Hendricks went, and Elliott turned to Eunice, with a grave face,

"I've been going over Sanford's private papers," he said, "and, Eunice, there's a lot that we want to keep quiet."

"Was Sanford a bad man?" she asked, her quiet, white face imploring a negative answer.

"Not so very, but, as you know, he had a love of money—a sort of acquisitiveness, that led him into questionable dealings. He loaned money to any one who would give him security—"

"That isn't wrong!"

"Not in itself—but, oh, Eunice, I can't explain it to you—or, at least, I don't want to—but Sanford lent money to men—to his friends—who were in great exigency—who gave their choicest belongings, their treasures as security—and then—he had no leniency—no compassion for them—"

"Why should he have?"

"Because—well, there is a justice, that is almost criminal. Sanford was a—a Shylock! There, can you understand now?"

"Who were his debtors? Alvord?"

"Yes; Hendricks was one who owed him enormous sums—and he was going to make lots of trouble—I mean Sanford was—why, Eunice, in Sanford's private safe are practically all of Hendricks' stocks and bonds, put up as collateral. Sanford holds mortgages on all Hendricks' belongings—real estate, furniture—everything. Now, just at the time Sanford died these notes were due—this indebtedness of Hendricks to Sanford had to be paid, and merely the fact of San's death occurring just when it did saved Alvord from financial ruin."

"Do you mean Sanford would have insisted on the payment?"

"Yes."

"Then—oh, Mason I can't say it—I wouldn't breathe it to any one but you but could Alvord have killed Sanford?"

"Of course not, Eunice. He was in Boston, you know."

"Yes, I know. But—Mason, he hinted to me just now, that that maybe you killed San."

"Did he, dear? Then he was angry or—or crazy! He doesn't think so. Perhaps he was—very jealous."

"Yes, he was! How did you know?"

"I have eyes. You don't care for him—particularly—do you —Eunice?"

Their eyes met and in one long look, the truth was told. A great love existed between these two, and both had been honest and honorable so long as Eunice was Sanford's wife. And even now, though Embury was gone, Elliott made no protestation of love to his widow—said no word that might not have been heard by the whole world, but they both knew—no word was necessary.

A beautiful expression came over Eunice's face—she smiled a little and the love-light in her eyes was unmistakable.

"I shall never lose my temper again," she said, softly, and Mason Elliott believed her.

"Another big debtor to Sanford is Mr. Patterson," he went on, forcing himself to calm his riotous pulses, and continue his business talk.

"How is that man mixed into our affars?"

"He's very much mixed up in San's affairs. But, Eunice, I don't want to burden you with all these details. Only, you see, Alvord is your lawyer, and—it's confoundedly awkward—"

"Look here, Mason, do this—can't you? Forgive Alvord all Sanford's claims on him. I mean, wipe the slate clean, as far as he is concerned. I don't want his money—I mean I don't want to keep his stocks and things. Give them all back to him, and hush the matter up. You know, we four, Sanford and Alvord and you and I, are the old quartet—the 'three boys and a girl' who used to play together. Now one of us is gone—don't let's make any trouble for another of the group. I've enough money without realizing on Alvord's securities. Give them all back to him—and forget it. Can't we?"

"Why, yes, I suppose so—if you so decree. What about Patterson?"

"Oh, those things you and Alvord must look after. I've no head for business. And anyway—must it be attended to at once?"

"Not immediately. Sanford's estate is so large, and his debtors so numerous, it will take months to get it adjusted."

"Very well, let anything unpleasant wait for a while, then."

Now, on this very day, and at this very hour, Fibsy was in Philadelphia, watching the initial performance of a new "human fly."

A crowd was gathered about the tall skyscraper, where the event was to take place, and when Hanlon appeared he was greeted by a roar, of cheering that warmed his applause-loving heart.

Bowing and smiling at his audience, he started on his perilous climb up the side of the building.

The sight was thrilling—nerve-racking. Breathlessly the people watched as he climbed up the straight, sheer facade, catching now at a window ledge—now at a bit of stone ornamentation—and again, seeming to hold on by nothing at all—almost as a real fly does.

When he negotiated a particularly difficult place, the crowd forebore to cheer, instinctively feeling it might disturb him.

He went on—higher and higher—now pausing to look down and smile at the sea of upturned faces below—and, in a moment of bravado, even daring to pause, and hanging on by one hand and one foot, "scissor out" his other limbs and wave a tiny flag which he carried.

On he went, and on, at last reaching the very top. Over the coping he climbed, and gaily waved his flag as he bowed to the applauding crowds below.

Then, for Hanlon was a daring soul, the return journey was begun.

Even more fascinating than the ascent was this hazardous task.

Fibsy watched him, noted every step, every motion, and was fairly beside himself with the excitement of the moment.

And, then, when half a dozen stories from the ground—when success was almost within his grasp—something happened. Nobody knew what—a misstep—a miscalculation of distance—a slipping stone—whatever the cause, Hanlon fell. Fell from the sixth story to the ground.

Those nearest the catastrophe stepped back—others pushed forward—and an ambulance, ready for such a possible occasion, hurried the wounded man to the hospital.

For Hanlon was not killed, but so crushed and broken that his life was but a matter of hours—perhaps moments.

"Let me in—I must see him!" Fibsy fought the doormen, the attendants, the nurses.

"I tell you I must! In the name of the law, let me in!"

And then a more coherent insistence brought him permission, and he was immediately admitted to Hanlon's presence.

A priest was there, administering extreme unction, and saying such words of comfort as he could command, but at sight of Fibsy, Hanlon's dull eyes brightened and he partially revived.

"Yes—him!" he cried out, with a sudden flicker of energy, "I must talk to him!"

The doctor fell back, and made way for the boy. "Let him talk, if he likes," he said; "nothing matters now. Poor chap, he can't live ten minutes."

Awed, but very determined, Fibsy approached the bedside.

He looked at Hanlon—strangely still and white, yet his eyes burning with a desperate desire to communicate something.

"Come here," he whispered, and Fibsy drew nearer to him.

"You know?" he said.

"Yes," and Fibsy glanced around as if f to be sure of his witnesses to this strange confession, "you killed Sanford Embury."

"I did. I—I—oh, I can't—talk. You talk—"

"This is his confession," Fibsy turned to the priest and the doctor; "listen to it." Then addressing himself again to Hanlon, he resumed: "You climbed up the side of the apartment house—on the cross street—not on Park Avenue—and you got in at Miss Ames' window."

"Yes," said Hanlon, his white lips barely moving, but his eyes showing acquiescence.

"You went straight through those two rooms—softly, not awakening either of the ladies—and you killed Mr. Embury, and then—you returned through the bedrooms—" " Again the eyes said yes.

"And, passing through Miss Ames' room, she stirred, and thinking she might be awake, you stopped and leaned over her to see. There you accidentally let fall—perhaps from your breast pocket- -the little glass dropper you had used—and as you bent over the old lady, she grabbed at you, and felt your jersey sleeve—even bit at it—and tasted raspberry jam. That jam got on that sleeve as you climbed up past the Patterson's window, where a jar of it was on the window-sill—"

"Yes—that's right," Hanlon breathed, and on his face was a distinct look of admiration for the boy's perception.

"You wore a faintly-ticking wrist-watch—the same one you're wearing now—and the odor of gasoline about you was from your motor-cycle. You, then, were the 'vision' Miss Ames has so often described, and you glided silently away from her bedside, and out at the window by which you entered. Gee! it was some stunt!"

This tribute of praise was wrung from Fibsy by the sudden realization that what he had for some time surmised was really true!

"I guess it was that jam that did for you," he went on, "but, say, we ain't got no time for talkin'."

Hanlon's eyes were already glazing, his breath; came shorter and it was plain to be seen the end was very near.

"Who hired you?" Fibsy flung the question at him with such force that it seemed to rouse a last effort of the ebbing life in the dying man and he answered, faintly but clearly:

"Alvord Hendricks—ten thousand dollars—" and then Hanlon was gone.

Reminding the priest and the doctor that they were witnesses to this dying confession, Fibsy rushed from the room and back to New York as fast as he could get there.

He learned by telephone that Fleming Stone was at Mrs. Embury's, and, pausing only to telephone for Shane to go at once to the same house, Fibsy jumped into a taxicab and hurried up there himself.

"It's all over," he burst forth, as he dashed into the room where Stone sat, talking to Eunice. Mason Elliott was there, too—indeed, he was a frequent visitor—and Aunt Abby sat by with her knitting.

"What is?" asked Stone, looking at the boy in concern. For Fibsy was greatly excited, his fingers worked nervously and his voice shook.

"The whole thing, Mr. Stone! Hanlon's dead—and he killed Mr. Embury."

"Yes—I know—" Fleming Stone showed no surprise. "Did he fall?"

"Yessir. Got up the climb all right, and 'most down again, and fell from the sixth floor. Killed him—but not instantly. I went to the hospital, and he confessed."

"Who did?" said Shane, coming in at the door as the last words were spoken.

"Willy Hanlon—a human fly."

And then Fleming Stone told the whole story—Fibsy adding here and there his bits of information.

"But I don't understand," said Shane, at last, "why would that chap kill Mr. Embury?"

"Hired," said Fibsy, as Stone hesitated to speak; "hired by a man who paid him ten thousand dollars."

"Hanlon a gunman!" said Shane, amazed.

"Not a professional one," Fibsy said, "but he acted as one in this case. The man who hired him knew he was privately learning to be a 'human fly,' and he had the diabolical thought of hiring him to climb up this house, and get in at the only available window, and kill Mr. Embury with that henbane stuff."

"And the man's name?" shouted Shane, "the name of the real criminal?"

Fibsy sat silent, looking at Stone.

"His name is Alvord E. Hendricks," was Stone's quiet reply.

An instant commotion arose. Eunice, her great eyes full of horror, ran to Aunt Abby, who seemed about to collapse from sheer dismay.

Mason Elliott started up with a sudden "Where is he?" and Shane echoed, with a roar: "Yes, where is he? Can he get away?"

"No," said Stone; "he can't. I have him covered day and night by my men. At present, Mr. Shane, he is—I am quite sure—in his office—if you want to go there—"

"If I want to go there! I should say I do! He'll get his!"

And in less than half an hour, Shane had taken Alvord Hendricks into custody, and in due time that arch criminal received the retribution of justice.

Shane gone, Fibsy went over the whole story once again.

"You see, it was Mr. Stone's keeping at it what did it. He connected up Hanlon and the jam—he connected up Mr. Hendricks and the Hamlet business—we connected up Hanlon and the gasoline- -and Hanlon and the jersey and the motor-cycle and all!" Fibsy grew excited; "then we connected up Hendricks and his 'perfect alibi.' Always distrust the perfect alibi—that's one of Mr. Stone's first maxims. Well, this Hendricks—he had a pluperfect alibi—couldn't be shaken—so Mr. Stone, he says, the more perfect the alibi, the more we must distrust it. So he went for that alibi—and he found that Mr. Hendricks was sure in Boston that night, but he didn't have any real reason, not any imperative reason for going—it was a sorta trumped up trip. Well—that's the way it was. He had to get Mr. Embury out of the way just then, or be shown up—a ruined man—and, too, he was afraid Mr. Embury'd be president of the club—and, too—he wanted to—"

Fibsy gave one eloquent glance at Eunice, and paused abruptly in his speech. Every one knew—every one realized that love of Sanford Embury's wife was one reason, at least, for the fatal deed. Everybody realized that Alvord Hendricks was a villain through and through—that he had killed his friend—though not by his own hand.

Eunice never saw Hendricks again. She and Aunt Abby went away for a year's stay. They traveled in lovely lands, where the scenery and climate brought rest and peace to Eunice's troubled heart, and where she learned, by honest effort, to control her quick temper.

And then, after two of the one-time friendly quartet had become only a past memory, the remaining two, Eunice and Mason Elliott, found happiness and joy.

"One of our biggest cases, F. Stone," said Fibsy, one day, reminiscently.

"It was, indeed, Fibs; and you did yourself proud."

"Great old scheme! Perfect alibi—unknown human fly—bolted doors—all the elements of a successful crime—if he hadn't slipped up on that Raspberry jam!"

THE END