But Fibsy was unmoved by this praise. “I sorta sensed it,” he went on. “Well, sir, that shoe button never came offen Mr. Landon’s shoes, sir.”
“How do you know?”
“I got around the chambermaid here in this house, sir, an’ she hunted all over Mr. Landon’s shoes, an’ they ain’t no buttons missin’; an’ too, sir, this button is from a city shoe, a New York shoe. An’ Mr. Landon, he wears western shoes. Oh, I know; I’ve dug into it good.”
“Well, whose button is it?”
“I don’t know, sir, but you can find out. I told Miss Trowbridge, sir, my clues was clues only in your hands.”
“The button may be important, and may not.”
“Yes, sir,” and Fibsy beamed “that’s jest exactly what I thought. Now, my other clue, sir, is this. I ain’t got it here, but I got it safe home. It’s a hunk o’ dirt that I cut out o’ the ground, right near the—the spot. You see, it has a print in it, a deep, clear print, sorta round. Well, sir, I’d like you to see it ’fore I describe it. I’d like to know if it strikes you like it does me.”
The boy seemed all unaware of any presumption in the manner of argumentative equality which he had adopted toward the famous detective, and, to Avice’s surprise, Mr. Stone seemed not to resent it.
“Were there other marks of this nature?”
“Yes, several. I scratched them away with my foot.”