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"Oh, my land!" burst out Fibsy; "don't you see? The ghost was Mrs, Embury!" The boy had put into words what was in the thoughts of both Stone and Elliott.
"I'll look into that," and Stone made a note of it. "About that carving knife, Fibsy. Did the caterers take it away by mistake?" "No, sir; I 'vestergated that, an' they didn't." "That knife is an important thing, to my mind," the detective went on. "Yes, sir," eagerly agreed Fibsy. "It may yet cut the Gorgian knot! Why, Mr. Stone, the sewing lady knew that knife.
"Fibsy," I corrected. "He is certainly a bright youth. And he plans to hunt down Miss Van Allen by means of her maid, Julie." "Are they together?" "We only suppose so. It seems probable, that Miss Van Allen would want the help, if not the protection of her servant. Julie is a most capable woman, and devoted to her mistress." "I've heard so.
"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 "
"They're almost all classical or old-fashioned songs." "I like the classical kind," Fibsy said, endeavoring to be agreeable. "Please play the gayest you have, though." But there were few "gay" ones in the collection. Wagner's operas and Beethoven's solemn marches gave forth their noble numbers and Fibsy sat, politely listening.
"But, Fibsy," I cried in triumph, "I've seen the handwriting of these two ladies, over and over again, and they're not a bit alike!" "I know it," and Fibsy nodded. "But, Mr. Calhoun, did you know that Miss Van Allen always writes with her left hand?" "No, and I don't believe she does!" "Yessir. I went to the bank an' they said so. An' I asked the sewin' woman, an' she said so.
But as I went out of my own door I left the house early, for I couldn't face Aunt Lucy and Winnie I suddenly decided it would be better to see Stone first and learn if anything had transpired since I left him. I rang the bell at Vicky Van's house with a terrible feeling of impending disaster, that might be worse than any yet known. Fibsy let me in.
The boy's attitude was eagerly attentive and his freckled little face was drawn in a desperate interest. "No!" Aunt Abby drew closer and just breathed the words, "Mr. Embury!" "Oh!" Fibsy was really startled, and his eyes opened wide, as he urged, "Go on, ma'am!" "Yes. Well, it was just at the moment that Mr. Embury was that he died you know." "Yes'm, they always comes then, ma'am!"
He had a box at the Grand Opera, and Ruth loved to go, but she liked lighter music also. This was not told complainingly, but transpired in the course of a conversation at which Fibsy chanced to be present. "Gee!" he said, looking at Ruth commiseratingly, "ain't you never heard 'The Jitney Girl' or 'The Prince of Peoria'?" Ruth shook her head, smiling at the boy's amazement.
And from the wrinkled folds fell, with a clatter to the floor, the missing carving-knife! I stooped to pick up the knife. "'Scuse me, Mr. Calhoun," cried Fibsy, grasping my hand, "don't touch it! Finger prints, you know!" "Right, boy!" and Stone nodded, approvingly. "Pick it up, Fibsy."
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