An hour later Terence McGuire presented himself at the Embury home and asked for Miss Ames. “Good morning, ma’am,” he said, as he smiled brightly at her. “Howlja like to join me in a bit of investergation that’ll proberly end up in a s’lution of the mystery?” “I’d like it first rate,” replied Miss Ames, with enthusiasm. “When do we begin?” “Immejitly. Where’s Mis’ Embury?” “In her room.” “No use a-disturbin’ her, but I want’a see the jersey--the gymnasium jersey your ghost wore.” Aunt Abby looked disappointed. She had hoped for something more exciting. But she said, “I’ll get it,” and went at once to Sanford Embury’s room. “Thank you,” said Fibsy, as he took it. But his eager scrutiny failed to disclose any trace of jam on its sleeves. “Which arm did you bite?” he asked, briefly. “I didn’t really bite at all,” Miss Ames returned. “I sort of made a snap at him--it was more a nervous gesture than an intelligent action. And I just caught a bit of the worsted sleeve between my lips for an instant--it was, let me see--it must have been the left arm--” “Well, we’ll examine both sleeves--and I regret to state, ma’am, there’s no sign of sticky stuff. This is a fine specimen of a jersey--I never saw a handsomer one--but there’s no stain on it, and never has been.” “Nor has it ever been cleaned with gasoline,” mused Miss Ames, “and yet, McGuire, nothing, to my dying day, can ever convince me that I am mistaken on those two subjects. I’m just as sure as I can be.” “I’m sure, too. Listen here, Miss Ames. There’s a great little old revelation due in about a day or so, and I wish you’d lay low. Will you?” “What do you mean?” “Why, don’t do or say much about the affair. Let it simmer. I’m on the warpath, and so’s Mr. Stone, and we’re comin’ out on top, if we don’t have no drawbacks. So, don’t trot round to clarviants or harp on that there ‘vision’ of yours, will you?” “My boy, I’m only too glad to keep away from the subject. I’m worried to death with it all. And if I can’t do any good by my efforts, I’ll willingly ‘lay low’ as you ask.” “All right, ma’am. Now, I’m off, and I’ll be back here when I come again. So long.” Fibsy went down in the service elevator and forthwith proceeded to interview the rubbish man of the house and some other functionaries. By dint of much prodding of memory, assisted by judicious silver offerings, he finally learned that there was an apartment occupied by a couple with four children, who, it appeared, consumed large quantities of jam of all flavors. At least, their rubbish was bristling with empty jam pots, and the deduction was logical. Seemingly unimpressed, Fibsy declared it was pickle-fiends he was searching for, and departed, outwardly crestfallen, but inwardly elated. Going out of doors, he walked to the corner of Park Avenue, and turned into the side street.