“I can’t tell you, Miss Trowbridge. Not that I ain’t willin’,—but them clues is clues, only in the hands of a knowin’ detective.”
“Then tell Mr. Duane.”
“I said a knowin’ detective. That goat don’t know a clue from pickled pigs’ feet! No ma’am! ’Scuse me, but them clues is my own,—and they’ll go to waste, lessen I can give ’em to the right man.”
“And who is the right man, Fibsy?”
“He’s Fleming Stone, that’s who he is! And no one else is any good whatsumever.”
“Fleming Stone? I have heard of him.”
“Have you, Miss Avice! Well, if you want ter find out for sure who killed your uncle, they ain’t no one as can find out but that same Fleming Stone!”
“You go back now, Fibsy,” said Avice, after a moment’s thought, “and if I decide to send for this man, I’ll let you know.”
“All right, Miss Avice, but I ain’t goin’ back to Phil’delphia, I’m goin’ to stay here fer awhile. If you wanter see me, they’s a telephone to the house where I live. Here, I’ll write you down the number. If I ai’n’t home, leave word wit’ me Aunt Becky.”
Avice took the paper Fibsy gave her, and nodded pleasantly to him as he went away, but she was so deeply absorbed in her own thoughts she scarcely heeded the boy.