“Oh, lord, yes—I’ll tip him a dozen—tactfully, too. Don’t worry as to my discretion. But I don’t mind telling you I might as well tip the Washington monument. You see, F. S. has made up his mind.”
“As to the murderer?”
“Yep.”
“Who is it?”
“Haven’t an idea—and if I had, I’d say I hadn’t. You see, I’m his trusty.”
“Oh, well, in any case, you can put in a word against Mr. Keefe, can’t you?”
But Genevieve had lost interest in her project. She realized if Mr. Stone had accomplished his purpose and had solved the murder mystery he would be apt to take small interest in the love affairs of herself or Maida Wheeler, either.
“He won’t think much of his cherished trusty, if you don’t do the errand he sent you on,” she said, rather crossly.
Fibsy gave her a reproachful glance. “This, from you!” he said, dramatically. “Farewell, fair but false! I go to seek a fairer maiden, and I know where to find her!”
He went flying across the lawn, for he had caught a glimpse of Maida in the garden.