“Pretty sure. What dif, anyhow?”
But Fibsy didn’t wait to answer. He ran off and went straight to the Trowbridge house.
“Miss Avice,” he said, when he saw her, “Please kin I look at Mr. Trowbridge’s c’lection, if I won’t touch nothin’? Oh, please do lemme, won’t you?”
“Yes, if you promise to touch nothing,” and Avice led the way to the room, with its glass cases and cabinets of shallow drawers that held the stuffed birds and mounted insects so carefully arranged by the naturalist.
Rapidly Fibsy scanned the various specimens. Eagerly he scrutinized the labels affixed to them. Oblivious to the amused girl who watched him, he darted from case to case, now and then nodding his shock of red hair, or blinking his round blue eyes.
After a time, he stood for a moment in deep thought, then with a little funny motion, meant for a bow, he said, abstractedly, “Goo’ by, Lady. Fergive me fer botherin—” and rapidly descending the stairs he ran outdoors, and up the Avenue.
Half an hour later, he was at the door of a large college building, begging to be allowed to see Professor Meredith.
“Who are you?” asked the attendant.
“Nobody much,” returned Fibsy, honestly. “But me business is important. Wontcha tell Mr.——here, I’ll write it, it’s sorta secret—” and taking a neat pad and pencil from his pocket, the boy wrote, “Concerning the Trowbridge murder,” and folded it small.
“Give him that,” he said, with a quiet dignity, “and don’t look inside.”