“Perhaps McGuire needs a little explanation,” Stone smiled. “He is my right-hand man, and a great help in detail work. But he has a not altogether unearned reputation for untruthfulness. Indeed, his nickname is Fibsy, because of a congenital habit of telling fibs. I advise you of this, because I prefer you should not place implicit confidence in his statements.”
“But, Mr. Stone,” cried Maida, greatly interested, “how can he be of any help to you if you can’t depend on what he says?”
“Oh, he doesn’t lie to me,” Stone assured her; “nor does he tell whoppers at any time. Only, it’s his habit to shade the truth when it seems to him advisable. I do not defend this habit; in fact, I have persuaded him to stop it, to a degree. But you know how hard it is to reform entirely.”
“It won’t affect his usefulness, since he doesn’t lie to his employer,” Appleby said, “and, too, it’s none of our business. I’ve engaged Mr. Stone to solve the mystery of my father’s death, and I’m prepared to give him full powers. He may conduct his investigations on any plan he chooses. My only stipulation is that he shall find a criminal outside the Wheeler family.”
“A difficult and somewhat unusual stipulation,” remarked Stone.
“Why difficult?” Dan Wheeler said, quickly.
“Because, with three people confessing a crime, and no one else even remotely suspected, save a mysterious and perhaps mythical bugle-player, it does not seem an easy job to hunt up and then hunt down a slayer.”
“But you’ll do it,” begged Appleby, almost pleadingly, “for it must be done.”
“We’ll see,” Stone replied. “And now tell me more about the fire in the garage. It occurred at the time of the shooting, you say? What started it?”
But nobody knew what started it.