“It’s her sweetness,” said Fibsy, with a positive nod of his head, as if he were simply stating an axiom. “Yep, Keefe is clean gone daffy over her. I don’t blame him—though, of course my taste runs more to——”
“Don’t you dare!” cried Genevieve, coquettishly.
“To the rouged type,” Fibsy went on, placidly. “To my mind a complexion dabbed on is far more attractive than nature’s tints.”
Miss Lane burst into laughter and, far from offended, she said:
“You’re a darling boy, and I’ll never forget you—even in my will; now, to come back to our dear old brass tacks. Will you tip a gentle hint to the great Stone?”
“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.”
“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.
“Miss Wheeler,” he said, as he reached her, “will you please come now to see Mr. Stone? He wants you.”
“Certainly,” she replied, and turning, followed him.
Genevieve joined them, and the three went to Stone’s rooms.
“Miss Wheeler,” the detective said, without preamble, “I want you to tell me a few things, please. You’ll excuse me if my questions seem rather pointed, also, if they seem to be queries already answered. Did you kill Mr. Appleby?”
“Yes,” said Maida, speaking wearily, as if tired of making the assertion.
“You know no one believes that statement?”
“I can’t help that, Mr. Stone,” she said, with a listless manner.
“That is, no one but one person—your father. He believes it.”