Crossing that street to get a better view, he looked up the side of the big apartment house, and his gaze paused at the window in the tenth story which was in Miss Ames’ sleeping-room. Two floors below this was the apartment of the family who were reputed jam eaters. Fibsy looked intently at all the windows. The one next Miss Ames’ was, he knew, in the Embury’s pantry. Hence, the one two stories below was in the Patterson’s pantry the Patterson being the aforesaid family. And to the boy’s astonished and delighted eyes, there on the pantry window-sill sat what was unmistakably a jam jar! So far, so good. But what did it mean? Fibsy had learned that Mr. Patterson was a member of the Metropolitan Athletic Club and was greatly interested in its presidential election--which election, owing to the death of one of the candidates had been indefinitely postponed. But further investigation of Mr. Patterson was too serious a matter for the boy to undertake. It must be referred to Fleming Stone. So Fibsy glued his eyes once more to that fascinating jam jar up on the eighth-story window-sill, and slowly walked away. Under his breath he was singing, “Raz Berry Jam! Raz Berry Jam!’--” to the tune of a certain march from Lohengrin, which somehow represented to his idea the high note of triumph. He proceeded along the cross street, and at Fifth Avenue he entered a bus. His next errand took him to the home of Fifi Desternay. By some ingenious method of wheedling, he persuaded the doorman to acquaint the lady with the fact of his presence, and when she came into the room where he awaited her he banked on his nerve to induce her to grant him an interview. “You know me,” he said, with his most ingratiating smile, and he even went so far as to take her beringed little hand in his own boyish paw. “I do not!” she declared, staring at him, and then, his grin proving infectious, she added, not unkindly, “Who are you, child?” “I wish I was a society reporter or a photographer, or anybody who could do justice to your wonderful charms!” His gaze of admiration was so sincere that Fifi couldn’t resent it. She often looked her best in the morning, and her dainty negligee and bewitching French cap made her a lovely picture. She tucked herself into a big, cushioned chair, and drawing a smoking-stand nearer, fussed with its silver appointments. “Lemme, ma’am,” said Fibsy, eagerly, and, though it was his first attempt, he held a lighted match to her cigarette with real grace. Then, drawing a long breath of relief at his success, he took a cigarette himself, and sat near her. “Well,” she began, “what’s it all about? And, do tell me how you got in! I’m glad you did, though it was against orders. I’ve not seen anything so amusing as you for a long time!” “This is my amusin’ day,” returned the boy, imperturbably. “I came to talk over things in general--” “And what in particular?”