"Yes'm! How'd you guess?" The laughing eyes met hers and the boy's stubby paw touched Iris' soft hand.
But some subtle spark passed between them, that made each feel the other a friend, and a tacit compact was sealed without a word.
"Lemme see the room?" whispered Fibsy, with a pleading look at Fleming Stone.
"Yes," and the detective rose at once, and accompanied the lad to the room of the tragedy.
The details of the death of Mrs. Pell were quickly rehearsed, and Fibsy's eyes darted round the room, taking in every detail of walls and furniture.
Hughes was astounded. Who was this insignificant boy that he should be consulted, and referred to? Why was an experienced detective, like himself, set aside, as of no consequence, while Fleming Stone watched absorbedly the face of the urchin?
"How did the murderer get out?" Hughes could not help saying, with a view to confusing the boy.
"Gee! If all you local police has concentrated your thinkers on that all this time, and hasn't doped it out yet, I can't put it over all at once! But Mr. Stone, he'll yank the heart out o' the mystery, you can just bet. Of course, 'How'd the murderer get out?' is easy enough to sit around an' say—like a flock of parrots! The thing to do is to find out how he did get out!"
Fibsy stood, hands in pockets, in front of the mantel, looking down at the floor.
"Here's where she was lyin'?" he asked gravely, and Iris nodded her head.