“Yep,” and Fibsy went quietly up the stairs.
Hanlon’s room was not locked, but a big wardrobe inside was—and nothing else was of interest to the visitor. He picked at the lock with his knife, but to no avail.
As he stood looking wistfully at the wardrobe door, a cheerful voice sounded behind him:
“I’ll open it for you—what do you want out of it?”
Fibsy looked up quickly, to see Hanlon himself, smiling at him. Quick to take a cue, the boy didn’t show any embarrassment, but putting out his hand said, “How do you do, Mr. Hanlon?”
“Fine. How’s yourself? And why the sneak visit, my boy?”
Fibsy looked his questioner square in the eye, and then said, “Oh, well, I s’pose I may as well speak right out.”
“You sure may. Either tell the truth, or put up such a convincing lie that I’ll think it’s the truth. Go ahead.”
“Here goes, then,” Fibsy made a quick decision, that Hanlon was too keen to stand for any lie. “I’m engaged on the Embury murder case.”
“I know that’s true—though it’s hard to believe.”