“No; but they all said,—the office people and the home people both,—that Uncle Rowland used that make and letter always. So it was doubtless his.”
“I only saw it for a moment. I shall examine it more closely. But I observed it was sharpened with an automatic sharpener. Did you notice one on your uncle’s desk?”
“No, and I don’t believe he would have one. He was too old-fogy to use modern contraptions much. Maybe the murderer dropped it.”
“Maybe he did. It is often on such small things that great conclusions hinge. What do you think of that office boy?”
“Fibsy? He’s a case. A little fresh, perhaps, but a bright chap, and devoted to my uncle’s memory.”
“I don’t think he’s fresh, exactly. But I do think he’s bright,—exceptionally so, and I have asked him to help me—”
“Fibsy! To help Fleming Stone! Excuse me if I seem amused.”
“Oh, I don’t mind your amusement. Now, here’s the case as it stands, Mr. Landon. You didn’t telephone to Mr. Trowbridge that afternoon at two, calling him ‘Uncle’ did you?”
“I did not.”
“And there are no other nephews?”