Hanlon drew a key from his pocket, and flung the wardrobe door wide.
“There you are—go to it!”
Swiftly, but methodically, Fibsy took down every article of wearing apparel the wardrobe contained, glanced at it and returned it, Hanlon looking on with an amused expression on his face.
“Any incriminating evidence?” he said at last, as Fibsy hung up the final piece of clothing.
“Not a scrap,” was the hearty reply. “If I don’t get more evidence offen somebody else than I do from you, I’ll go home empty-handed!”
“Let me help you,” and Hanlon spoke kindly; “I’ll hunt evidence with you.”
“Some day, maybe. I’ve got to-day all dated up. And, say, why did you tell me you wasn’t a steeplejack painter, when you are?”
“You’re right, I am. But I don’t want it known, because I’m going to branch out in a new field soon, and I don’t want that advertised at present.”
“I know, Mr. Barton told me. You’re going to be a human fly, and cut up pranks on the edges of roofs of skyscrapers—”
“Hush, not so loud. Yes, I am, but the goal is far distant. But I’m going to have a whack at it—and I know I can succeed, in time.”