“A detective has to be a magician,” Stone smiled at him. “We quite often do more astounding tricks than that.”
“Go to it, then!” cried Appleby. “That’s the talk I like to hear. Questions and answers any of us can put over. But the real detecting is like magic. At least, I can’t see how it’s done. Duff in, Mr. Stone. Get busy.”
The group dispersed then, Fleming Stone going to his room and the others straying off by twos or threes.
Burdon, who had said almost nothing during the confab, declared he wanted a talk with the great detective alone, and would await his pleasure.
So Burdon sat by himself, brooding, on the veranda, and presently saw the boy, Fibsy, returning toward the house.
“Come here, young one,” Burdon called out.
“Nixy, old one,” was the saucy retort.
“Why not?” in a conciliatory tone.
“’Cause you spoke disrespectful like. I’m a detective, you know.”
“All right, old pal; come here, will you?”