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.