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Updated: June 26, 2025
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.
This was my performance every morning, and always without thought of seeing anything of importance. But this time the area door stood half-way open, and looking out was a boy, a red-headed chap, with a freckled face and bright, wise eyes. I turned quickly and went in at the area gate. "Who are you?" I demanded, "and what are you doing here?" "I'm Fibsy," he said, as if that settled it.
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."
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.
Miss Ariadne Gale." "Thank you, sir. And will you gimme her address?" I did so, and then I went away, thinking Fleming Stone a queer sort of detective to have for assistant such an illiterate, uncultured boy as Fibsy. The name was enough to condemn him! But as I thought the little chap over, I realized that his talk had been clear-headed and to the point, besides showing sagacity and perspicacity.
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.
And, also, it was too late, for Fibsy had already done his camera work." "How do you know she did all that?" and I glowered at the detective. "Because Fibsy just told me he found evidences of this cleaning up, and, too, because Mrs. Schuyler purposely kept us over there longer than we intended to stay. You know how, when we proposed to say good-night, she urged us to stay longer.
I believe it, an' I know these walls are jest yellin' the truth at me, an' yet, I'm so soul-deef I can't make out their lingo! Well, let's make a stab at it. Mr. Stone, I'll lay you that knife is in some drawer or cubbid in this here very room." "Maybe, Fibsy," said Stone, cheerfully. "Where shall we look first?" "All over."
"That's why the missing carving-knife ought to be a clue," said Stone, "because its connection with the case is inexplicable. Now, where is that knife? Fibsy, where is it?" Fleming Stone's frequent appeals to the boy were often in a half-bantering tone, and yet, rather often, Terence returned an opinion or a bit of conjecture that turned Stone's cogitations in a fresh direction.
"It was, without doubt, Embury's spirit," he said, as Aunt Abby finished; "but your imagination has exaggerated and elaborated the facts. For instance, I think the jam and the gasoline are added by your fancy, in order to fill out the full tale of your five senses." "That's what I thought," and Fibsy nodded his head. "Raspberry jam! Oh, gee!" he exploded in a burst of silly laughter.
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