“Oh, I don’t know what to think! But I’m going to get the best detective I can find, and let him find out all he can. I believe uncle was killed by some robber, and his reference to Cain was merely the idea of a murderer. Uncle often talked that way.”
“Look here, Miss Trowbridge, I don’t want to butt in, I’m sure; but I’m a bit of a detective, myself, in an amateur way. Don’t you want me to,—but I suppose you want a professional.”
“I think I do want a professional,” began Avice, slowly; “still Mr. Pinckney, if you have a taste for this sort of thing, and know how to go about it, I might work with you more easily than with a professional detective. I’m going to do a lot myself, you know. I’m not just going to put the matter in an expert’s hands.”
“I hardly know what to say, Miss Trowbridge; I’d like to take up the case, but I might muff it awfully. I suppose you’d better get the real thing.”
“Well, until I do, why don’t you have a try at it? If you discover anything, very well; and if not, no harm done.”
Jim Pinckney’s face glowed. “That’s great of you!” he cried; “I’d like to take it up on that basis, and if I don’t find out anything of importance in a few days, engage any Sherlock Holmes you like.”
But a few days later when Pinckney again called on Avice, he was in a discouraged mood.
“I can’t find out anything,” he said. “The whole case is baffling. I went to the scene of the crime, but could find no clues. But, what do you think, Miss Trowbridge? When I reached the place where they found Mr. Trowbridge, there was that young office boy, looking over the premises.”
“That Fibsy, as he calls himself?”
“Yes; I asked him what he was doing, and he said, ‘Oh, just pokin’ around,’ and he looked so stupid that I feel sure he had found something.”