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?”