Avice went away, thinking. No clues; and every case depended on clues. Stay,—he had said no clues except those Fibsy told of. True, he was mocking, he was making fun of the boy, who was celebrated for untruthfulness, but if those were the only clues, she would at least inquire into them.
Through Miss Wilkinson she found the boy’s address in Philadelphia, and wrote for him to come to see her.
He came.
Avice had chosen a time when Eleanor would be out, and they were not likely to be interrupted.
“Good morning, Terence, how do you do?”
“Aw, Miss Trowbridge, now,—don’t talk to me like that!”
“Why not, child?”
“And don’t call me child, please, Miss Trowbridge. I’m goin’ on sixteen,—leastways, I was fifteen last month.”
“Ah, are you trying to be truthful, now, Fibsy?”
“Yes’m, I am. I’ve got a good position in Philadelphia, and I was agoin’ to keep it. But, well, I feel like I wanted to work on this here case of your uncle.”