Nor were her efforts unappreciated.
“Gee! Aunt Beck, but this is the scream of a strawberry shortcake!” would be her well-earned reward. “You sure do beat the hull woild fer cookin’!”
And Aunt Becky would beam and begin at once to plan for supper.
“There’s no use talkin’” said Fibsy, to himself, as he writhed and twisted around in the dilapidated rocker that graced his sleeping-room; “that milk bottle, with the old druggy stuff in it, means sumpum. Here I’ve mumbled over that fer weeks an’ ain’t got nowhere yet. But I got a norful hunch that it’s got a lot to do with our moider. An’ I’ve simply gotto dig out what!”
Scowling fearfully, he racked his brain, but got no answer to his own questions. Then he turned his thoughts again to Miss Wilkinson’s strange account of that queer telephone message. “That’s the penny in the slot!” he declared. “I jest know that rubbish she reels off so slick, is the key clue, as they call it. Me for Wilky, onct again.”
Grabbing his hat he went to interview the stenographer. She too, had not yet taken another place, though she had one in view.
Obligingly she parroted over to Fibsy the lingo of the message.
“Did the guy say he’d give the Stephanotis to Mr. Trowbridge, or they’d get it?” he demanded, his blue eyes staring with deep thought.
“W’y, lemmesee. I guess he said,—oh, yes, I remember, he said, I guess we’ll find some Stephanotis—”
“Oh, did he? Are you sure?”