“The Patterson business must be looked into. I’ll attend to that to-day--I’ll also see Mr. Elliott about that matter of personal loans that Mr. Embury seemed to be conducting as a side business.” “Yes, do, please. Mr. Stone, it would be a first-class motive, if Mr. Embury had a strangle-hold on somebody who owed him a whole lot and couldn’t pay, and--” “Fine motive, my boy--but how about opportunity? You forget those bolted doors.” “And Mr. Patterson had borrowed money of Mr. Embury--” “How do you know that?” “I heard it--oh, well, I got it from one of the footmen of the apartment house--” “Footmen! What do you mean?” “You know there’s a lot of employees--porters, rubbish men, doormen, hallmen, pages and Lord knows what! I lump ‘em all under the title of footmen. Anyway, one of those persons told me--for a consideration--a lot about the private affairs of the tenants. You know, Mr. Stone, those footmen pick up a lot of information--overhearing here and there--and from the private servants kept by the tenants.” “That’s true, Fibs; there must be a mine of information available in that way.” “There is, sir. And I caught onto a good deal--and specially, I learned that Mr. Patterson is in the faction--or whatever you call it--that didn’t want Mr. Embury to be president of that club.” “And so you think Mr. Patterson had a hand in the murder?” Stone’s face was grave, and there was no hint of banter in his tone, so Fibsy replied, earnestly, “Well, he is the man who has lots of empty jam jars go down in the garbage pails.” “But he has lots of children.” “Yes, sir--four. Oh, well, I suppose a good many people like raspberry jam.” “Go on, Fibsy; don’t be discouraged. As I’ve often told you, one scrap of evidence is worth considering. A second, against the same man--is important--and a third, is decidedly valuable.” “Yessir, that’s what I’m bankin’ on. You see, Mr. Patterson, now--he’s over head and ears in debt to Embury. He was against Embury for club president. He was present at the henbane discussion. And--he’s an habitual buyer of raspberry jam.” “Some counts,” and Fleming Stone looked thoughtful. “But not entirely convincing. How’d he get in?” “You know his apartment is directly beneath the Embury apartment--but two floors below.” “Might as well be ten floors below. How could he get in?” “Somebody got in, Mr. Stone. You know as well as I do, that neither Mrs. Embury nor Miss Ames committed that murder. We must face that.” “Nor did Ferdinand do it. I’ll go you all those assumptions.” “All right, sir; then somebody got in from the outside.” “How?” “Mr. Stone, haven’t you ever read detective stories where a murder was committed in a room that was locked and double-locked and yet somebody did get in--and the fun of the story is guessing how he got in.” “Fiction, my boy, is one thing--fact is another.” “No, sir; they’re one and the same thing!”