“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.”