“I heard it—oh, well, I got it from one of the footmen of the apartment house—”
“Footmen! What do you mean?”
“You know there’s a lot of employees—porters, rubbish men, doormen, hallmen, pages and Lord knows what! I lump ‘em all under the title of footmen. Anyway, one of those persons told me—for a consideration—a lot about the private affairs of the tenants. You know, Mr. Stone, those footmen pick up a lot of information—overhearing here and there—and from the private servants kept by the tenants.”
“That’s true, Fibs; there must be a mine of information available in that way.”
“There is, sir. And I caught onto a good deal—and specially, I learned that Mr. Patterson is in the faction—or whatever you call it—that didn’t want Mr. Embury to be president of that club.”
“And so you think Mr. Patterson had a hand in the murder?”
Stone’s face was grave, and there was no hint of banter in his tone, so Fibsy replied, earnestly, “Well, he is the man who has lots of empty jam jars go down in the garbage pails.”
“But he has lots of children.”
“Yes, sir—four. Oh, well, I suppose a good many people like raspberry jam.”
“Go on, Fibsy; don’t be discouraged. As I’ve often told you, one scrap of evidence is worth considering. A second, against the same man—is important—and a third, is decidedly valuable.”