"No," agreed Hughes, "when Bannard came up here Sunday morning on his bicycle, he had no thought for the day's news! He had other plans ahead. He carried that paper up here without reading it, and he left it here, also unopened."
"Might 'a' been opened an' folded up again," offered Fibsy. "It has, too."
"I did that," said Hughes, importantly. "I opened it, the first time I saw it, naturally one would, and I refolded it exactly as it was. It's of no further value as evidence, but I made sure it hadn't been read. You can always tell if a paper's been read or not."
"Sure you can," agreed Fibsy. "Where's this Mr. Bannard live?"
"In bachelor apartments in New York," said Iris.
"I mean, where in New York?" the boy persisted
"West Forty-fourth Street."
"He ain't the murderer," and Fibsy handed the newspaper, that he had been glancing over, back to Hughes.
"You darling!" cried Iris, excitedly, grasping Fibsy's two hands. "Of course he isn't. But how do you know?"
"Don't go too fast, Fibs," said Fleming Stone, smiling with understanding at the boy. "Shall we say the real murderer lives somewhere near Bob Grady's place?"