“Yessir,” cried Fibsy, eagerly; “that’s the guy, Musterberg,—or whatever his name is. I’m studyin’ him, ’cause I’m goin’ to be a detective.”
“Now, let us see how this new angle of vision affects our outlook,” said Judge Hoyt, ignoring the boy, and turning to the district attorney.
“It gives us a fresh start,” said Whiting, musingly. “And here’s my first thought. Whoever telephoned that message, not only knew of Mr. Trowbridge’s interest in rare beetles, but knew the scientific names for them.”
“Right,” agreed Hoyt, “and doesn’t that imply that we must start afresh for a suspect? For, surely, neither Stryker the butler, nor Mr. Landon would have those names so glibly on his tongue.”
“Also, it was somebody who knew how to set the trap,—the milk-bottle trap. Terence, my boy, you did a big thing, this morning. How did you come to think it out?”
“I thought such a long time, sir.” Fibsy’s manner was earnest and not at all conceited. “I thought of every thing I could find in me bean to explain those crazy words that Wilky,—Miss Wilkinson said she heard. An’ I knew the goil well enough to know she heard jest about what she said she did, an’ so, I says to myself, there must be some meanin’ to ’em. An’ at last, I doped it out they must have sumpum to do with Mr. Trowbridge’s bug c’lection. He’d go anywhare or do anythin’ fer a new bug or boid. So I went an’ asked Miss Avice to let me give the c’lection the once-over. An’ she did, an’ then I saw a name sumpum like Wilky’s Stephanotis, an’ I was jest sure I was on the right track. So I ups an’ goes to see Perfesser Mer’dith,—an’ there you are!”
Fibsy’s face glowed, not with vanity, but with honest pride in his own achievement.
The boy was sent away, with an assurance that his assistance would be duly recognized at some other time, but that now he was in the way.
Not at all offended, he took his hat, and with his funny apology for a bow he left the room.
“Looks bad,” said Groot.