Fibsy went toward the Adams house, but stopped at the house next door to it. This was the home of Emily Bates.
Ringing that lady’s doorbell, Fibsy asked to see her.
“Mrs. Bates,” he said, politely, while Trask listened, “we want to see Miss Austin, please.”
“Anita!” said Mrs. Bates, flurriedly; “why—she—she isn’t—”
“Oh, yes, she is here,” said the boy, patiently, rather than rudely. “We have to see her, you see.”
“Here I am,” said Miss Mystery, coming in from the next room. “I think,” she said turning to Mrs. Bates, “I think, as you advised me, I’ll tell all.”
“Don’t tell it here!” cried Fibsy. “Please, Miss Austin—don’t spill your yarn here—oh, I mean, don’t—don’t divulge—”
The unusual word nearly choked the excited boy, who always in moments of strong emotion lapsed into careless English, but who tried not to.
“Now, look here,” Maurice Trask put in. “Here’s where I take hold. Miss Austin, you have told your story to Mrs. Bates?”
“Yes,” said, Anita, looking very sad, but determined.