“That’s a serious proposition, F. Stone. For, if he did it, he did it. And if Maida did it—she didn’t do it. See?”
“Not very clearly; but never mind, you needn’t expound. It doesn’t interest me.”
Fibsy looked comically chagrined, as he often did when Stone scorned his ideas, but he said nothing except:
“Orders, sir?”
“Yes, Terence. Hunt up Rachel, the maid, and find out all she knows. Use your phenomenal powers of enchantment and make her come across.”
“’Tis the same as done, sir!” declared the boy, and he departed at once in search of Rachel.
He sauntered out of the north door and took a roundabout way to the kitchen quarters.
Finally he found the cook, and putting on his best and most endearing little boy effects, he appealed for something to eat.
“Not but what I’m well treated at the table,” he said, “but, you know what boys are.”
“I do that,” and the good-natured woman furnished him with liberal pieces of pie and cake.