“Fibs, you’re a Boy Cassandra.”
“What’s that?”
Stone explained, for it was his habit to supplement McGuire’s very scant education by bits of information now and then, when time served.
“But, there’s a queer clause in the arrangement,” Stone went on, “if we find the evidence leading in a certain direction, the chase is to cease.”
“That won’t do.”
“Of course not, and I’ll soon make that clear. But I can’t think it will lead in the given direction as that implicates a young girl, and rarely indeed, have I found a criminal answering to that description.”
“’Tisn’t usual—but, you know, F. Stone, since the war, girls are so independent and so cocky that there’s no telling what they’ll do. Me for the girl—as a suspect.”
“Fibsy, you’re a fool.”
“No, sir. I don’t admit it. See here, sir, if they’re so ’fraid s’picion will turn to that girl, there’s reason for it. Yet, as you can guess, if she didn’t do it, they want her skirts entirely cleared.”
“Pretty good deduction so far. But we can’t judge rationally until we know the facts.”