  As the district attorney had surmised, Stryker was in hiding, under the protection of his daughter. Mrs. Adler was a clever young woman, and having undertaken to keep her father safe from the police investigation, she did so remarkably well. But being assured that there was no reason for apprehension if he had not committed the murder, Stryker decided to face the music. He had feared being railroaded to jail because of his handkerchief having been found in the wood, but a certainty of fair play gave him courage, and he emerged from the house of his daughter’s neighbor, with a trembling step, but an expression of face that showed plainly relief at the cessation of strain. “Yes, I kept father over to Mrs. Gedney’s,” said Mrs. Adler, “’cause I wasn’t going to have him all pestered up with an everlastin’ troop o’ p’licemen, when he handn’t done nothin’. I have my sick husband to nurse and wait on, and I can’t have detectives traipsin’ in here all the time. Oh, don’t talk to me about the law. I ain’t afraid. My father is as innercent as a babe, but he flusters awful easy, and a policeman after him makes him that put about, he don’ know where he’s at. So, I says, I’ll jest put him out o’ harm’s way fer a while till I see how the cat jumps.” “But as an intelligent woman, Mrs. Adler,” began Mr. Groot, “you must know——” “I know what I know; and I’m a wife and a daughter long ’fore I’m an intellergent woman. Don’t you come none o’ that kind of talk over me. You want my father, there he is. Now talk to him, if you can do so peaceably, but don’t give him no third degree, nor don’t fuss him all up with a lot o’ law terms what he don’t understand. Talk nice to him an’ he’ll tell you a heap more’n if you ballyrag him all to pieces!” Groot realized the force of this argument, “talked nice” to Stryker, he learned the old man’s story. He had been anxious to take out an insurance policy for his daughter before it became too late for him to do so; but, he affirmed, he did not kill his master for the purpose. The agent had been after him frequently, of late, to urge him to borrow the money for the premium. But this, Mrs. Adler did not want him to do, for, she argued, the interest on the loan and the premiums would counterbalance the value of the policy. They had had many discussions of the subject, for Mr. Adler, a very sick man, had wanted to die knowing that his wife had some provision for her old age. His illness precluded any insurance on his own life. Not interested in these minute details, Groot questioned Stryker closely about the handkerchief. “I don’t know,” Stryker said. “I don’t know, I’m sure, how my kerchief got into those woods, but I do know I didn’t take it there.” “Could it have been taken from your room?” “It must ’a’ been. Leastways, unless it was taken from the clothes line on a wash day,—or mebbe it blew off and was picked up by somebody passin’.” Though not extremely probable, these were possibilities, and they had not been thought of before by Groot or his colleagues. “There’s something in that,” he agreed, “now, Mr. Stryker, don’t get excited, but where were you Tuesday afternoon, the day that Mr. Trowbridge was killed?” “I know all where I was, but it’s sort o’ confused in my mind. I was to the insurance agent’s; and I was to the doctor’s to be sized up for that same insurance, if I did decide to take it out; and then I dropped in to see my daughter, and her man was so sick I thought his last hour had come, and I ran over for a neighbor, and somehow I was so upset and bothered with one thing and another that the more I try to straighten out in my mind the order of those things, the more mixed up I get. You see, it was my day out, and that always flusters me anyhow. I’m not so young as I was, and the onusualness of getting into street clothes and going out into the world, as it were, makes me all trembly and I can’t remember it afterward, like I can my routine days. And then when I did go home that night, first thing I knew master didn’t come home to dinner! That never had happened before, unless we knew beforehand. Well, then Mis’ Black she ate alone, and Miss Avice, she didn’t eat at all, and there was whisperin’ and goin’s on, and next thing I knew they told me master was dead. After that nothing is clear in my mind. No, sir, everything is a blur and a mist from that time on. That there inquest, now, that’s just like a dream,—a bad dream.” “Then,” and Groot egged him gently on, “then, about the night you left the Trowbridge house. Why did you do that?” Stryker looked sly, and put his finger to his lips. “Ah, that night! Well, if you’ll believe me, I heard them talking in the library. You know, sir, I’ve a right anywhere on the two floors. I ain’t like the other servants, I’ve a right,—so as I was a passin’, I overheard Mr. Duane say as how I was the murderer! Me, sir! Me, as loved my master more than I can tell you. Sir, I didn’t know what I was doing then, I just got out. I heard ’em say they had pos’tive proof, and somethin’ about a handkerchief, and I remembered the sight of that handkerchief I’d seen—oh, well, oh, Lord—oh, Lord! I didn’t do it!” The old man’s voice rose to a shriek and Mrs. Adler exclaimed. “There now, you’ve set him off! I knew you would! Now, he’ll have hystrics, and it’ll take me all night to get him ca’med down, and me with Mr. Adler on my hands and him always worse at night——” “Wait a minute,” commanded Groot. “I’m nearly through, and then I’ll go away and he can have his hysterics in peace. Go on, Stryker, finish up this yarn. What did you do when you heard Mr. Duane accuse you?” Stryker looked at him solemnly and blinked in an effort to concentrate. Then he said, “Why, I pretended I’d had a telephone call from Molly, and I ran around here as fast as I could, and Molly she says, they’ll be after you, go over to Mrs. Gedney’s and stay there. And I did, till you spied me out.” “All right,” and Groot rose to go. “Your father is all right, Mrs. Adler. Don’t coddle him too much. It makes him childish. Keep him here with you, and my word for it, no suspicion will rest on him. I had his alibi pretty well fixed up anyway, between the insurance agent and the doctor, and his story just about completes it. There isn’t one chance in a thousand that he’ll be accused, so keep him here and keep him quiet, and I’ll see you again in a day or two. But if your father tries to run away or to hide again, then he will find himself in trouble.” Mrs. Adler proved amenable to these orders and Groot went away to begin his hunt for the purloiner of Stryker’s handkerchief. “You won’t have to look far,” Whiting said, when he heard the detective’s story. “If you wanted one more thread in the strand of the rope for young Landon’s neck, that’s it. Of course, he got the handkerchief some way, whether from the housekeeper or not. Go to it and find out how.” Indirectly and by bits, Avice learned of Groot’s discoveries, and keeping her own counsel, she worked on a side line of her own devising. As a result, one morning when she went to see Alvin Duane with, what she felt sure he must call real evidence, he was very much interested indeed. “I hunted and hunted all through my uncle’s desk,” she said, fairly quivering with excitement, “and at last I was rewarded by finding this. It was tucked away in a pigeon-hole, and is evidently unfinished.” She gave Mr. Duane a slip of paper with a few typewritten words on it. The paper was torn and a little soiled, but perfectly legible. “Should I ever be found dead by some alien hand,” the paper read, “do not try to track down my murderer. I do not anticipate this event, but should it occur, it will be the work of John Hemingway. Do not search for him; he cannot be found. But his motive is a just one, and if——” The writing ended abruptly, as if the writer had been interrupted and had never finished the tale. “Who is John Hemingway?” asked Duane. “I have no idea,” said Avice; “I never heard uncle speak of him. But there can be no doubt of the authenticity, as this is the writing of my uncle’s typewriter. I recognize the type.” “Show me where you found it, Miss Trowbridge,” and going home with the girl, Duane examined the desk where she said she found the paper. “I wonder it was overlooked so long,” he mused. “No one has thought to go through the desk so thoroughly as I did,” she returned, with a wistful look in her eyes. “Will it save Kane?” “It may go far toward it,” was the reply; “we must hunt up this man.” “But my uncle says distinctly not to do that.” “Such instructions cannot be regarded. In a case like this, he must be found.” But no trace of the man named Hemingway could be discovered. However, the fact of the message having been written turned the tide of suspicion away from Landon to a degree, and to the best men of the force was assigned the task of discovering the identity or getting some knowledge of Hemingway. It was a few days later that Judge Hoyt had a caller at his office. A card was brought in, on which, in straggling letters, he read: “Terence McGuire.” “That Fibsy!” he said, smiling at the card. “Show him in.” So in walked Fibsy, into the office of the great lawyer, with an air of self-respect if not self-assurance. “Judge Hoyt,” he began, without greeting; “I want to talk to you.” “Very well, Terence, talk ahead.” “But I want you to listen to what I say, ’thout makin’ fun o’ me. Will you?” “Yes, I promise you that. But, I must tell you, I am a busy man, and I can’t spare much time this morning.” “I know it, Judge; I haven’t been with Mr. Trowbridge five years fer nothin’! I know all about business.” “You know a lot, then.” “I mean, I know how busy a boss is, an’ how he hates to see anybuddy, ’cept by appointment, an’ all that. Yes, I’ve kep’ up with the guv’nor’s ideas, an’ I’m not the fool I look!” Fibsy glanced up, as if surprised not to hear some humorous or sarcastic reply to this speech, but Judge Hoyt nodded, as if to a more self-evident observation. “You see I’m aimin’ to be a big man, myself.” “Ah, a lawyer?” “No, sir; I’m goin’ to be a detective! I’ve got a notion to it an’ I’m goin’ to work at it till I succeed. But that’s what I came to see you about. You know this here Trowbridge murder case?” “Yes, I know it.” “Well, you know that feller Landon ain’t guilty.” “Indeed, this is important information. Are you sure?” “Now you’re makin’ fun o’ me. Well, I can’t blame you, I s’pose I am only a kid, and an ignerant one at that. But, Judge, I’ve found clues. I found ’em up on the ground, right near where they found the guv’nor’s body.” “And what are your clues?” “Well, when I told that Pinckney reporter about ’em, he snorted. Promise me you won’t do that, sir.” “I promise not to snort,” said Hoyt, gravely. “Now, go ahead.” “Well, sir, I found a button and a hunk o’ dirt.” It was with some little difficulty that the lawyer kept his promise. Though he might have used a more graceful term, he certainly felt like “snorting.” However, he only said, gravely, “What sort of a button?” “A suspender button,” said Fibsy. And immediately he observed to himself, “Gee! I wonder why I lied then! Guess I’m born that way.” But for some reason, he did not correct his mis-statement, and say truly, that it was a shoe button. “Yes,” said Hoyt; “and the mud? What was the interest of that?” “Well, you see, sir, it had a mark in it.” “What sort of a mark?” “The print of a boot heel.” And again Fibsy communed with himself. “Done it again!” he observed, in silent soliloquy. “Well, when I lie, onexpected, like that, I’m always glad afterward!” Surely, the boy was well named! He had gone to Mr. Hoyt, fully intending to tell him of his “clues” and he had falsified in both instances. Judge Hoyt was as attentive and considerate in manner as if talking to an equal. “I know Terence,” he said, “that in the detective stories you are doubtless fond of, the eagle eyed sleuth sees a footprint, and immediately described the villain at full length. But I have never yet seen a footprint that amounted to anything as proof. Why, ninety-nine men out of a hundred would fit into the same footprint. Or, heelprint, I believe you said. Which, of course, would be even less distinctive.” Fibsy looked at the speaker in genuine admiration. “That’s just true, sir!” he cried, eagerly. “The stories are full of footprints, but I’ve tracked out lots of ’em and I never found a good one yet.” “Just what do you mean by ‘tracked them out’?” “Why, I’ve watched by chance of a rainy day, when lots of men track mud into the outer office, and afterward, I fit my own shoe to ’em an’ by jiminy, sir, it fits inter every bloomin’ track!” Hoyt looked interested. “You have gone into the subject carefully, almost scientifically.” “Well, I’ve read such rediklus tales of such things, I wanted to see for myself. You know, I’m goin’ to be a detective.” “If you have such ingenious views, you may succeed. But what about the button?” “Well, you see,” and Fibsy’s face grew blank, “you can’t tell much by a suspender button, ’cause they’re all alike. If it had been a coat button, now, or——” The judge looked at the boy thoughtfully. “Terence,” he said, “I promised not to laugh at you, and I won’t. But I think it only fair to tell you that I can’t take much interest in your ‘clues.’ But your conversation has made me realize that you’re a bright boy. Knowing that, and as you were the office boy of my very good friend, I’d like to do something for you. Have you obtained a place yet?” “No, sir, I haven’t.” “Well, then, I’d like to help you to get a good position. And would that wipe out your disappointment that I can’t make use of your clues?” “Yes, sir! I’d like to have a recommendation from you, sir.” “All right. Go away now and return this afternoon at three. I may have found a place for you by that time.” Fibsy went away, thinking deeply. “Ain’t I the limit?” he inquired of himself. “Why in the dickens did I tell him those lies? It’s funny, but sometimes I ’spect to tell a straight yarn and sumpin inside o’ me jest ups an’ lies! But it didn’t make any difference this time fer he wouldn’t a’ cared if I’d told him it was a shoe button, or if I’d told him the truth about the hunk o’ dirt. An’ anyway, a detective has to be awful sicretive, an’ it don’t do to alwus tell the truth.” At three the untruthful one returned for his news. “Well, Terence,” was the greeting, “I’ve a good position for you in Philadelphia.” Fibsy’s face fell. “I’d ruther be in New York.” “Is that so. Well, you’re not obliged to take this place, but I should advise you to do so. It’s office boy to a first-class lawyer, and you should be able to pick up a lot of odds and ends of information that might be useful to you in your detective career.” “Sounds good to me,” and Fibsy’s face cleared. “What’s the weekly number o’ bones?” “You will receive ten dollars a week, if you make good.” Fibsy almost fell over. “Gee! Mr. Hoyt, I ain’t worth it!” “That’s for your new employer to judge. I’ve been telephoning him, and he wants a boy who is wide-awake and not stupid. You ought to fill that bill.” “Yep, I can do that. Honest, Judge, I’ll do me best, and I’m orfly obliged, sir.” “Not at all. Can you go this afternoon?” “Today! Why, I s’pose I can. But it’s terrible sudden.” “I know it. But Mr. Stetson wants to go away tomorrow, for a few days, and he wants to break you in before he leaves.” “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. But, oh, say, now,—I jest can’t go off so swift,—honest I can’t Judge, sir.” “No? And why not?” “Well, you see, I gotter get some clo’es. Yes, sir, some clo’es. And my sister, she alwus goes with me to buy ’em, an’ she can’t get a day off till tomorrow. An’ then, if the clo’es has to be let out, or let in, you know, why it’d take a little longer. Yes sir, I see now, I couldn’t get off ’fore the first of the week.” “I’m not sure Mr. Stetson will hold the place for you as long as that.” “Pshaw, now, ain’t that jest my luck! Can’t you pussuade him, Judge,—pussuade him, as it were?” “I’ll try,” and smiling involuntarily, Judge Hoyt dismissed his caller. “At it again!” said Fibsy, to himself, as he passed along the corridor. “Gee! what whoppers I did tell about them clo’es!” |
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