“I can,” cried Fibsy, who was utterly routed by Eunice’s imperious beauty. “You go ahead with Mr. F. Stone, ma’am, and I’ll see to it that they ain’t no injustice done to you!” Stone looked at his excited young assistant with surprise, and then good-naturedly contented himself with a shake of his head, and a “Careful, Terence.” “Yes, sir--but, oh, Mr. Stone--” and then, at a gesture from the great detective the boy paused, abashed, and remained silent. “Now, Miss Ames,” Stone began, “in Mrs. Embury’s presence, I’ll ask you--” “You won’t ask me anything, sir,” she returned crisply. “I’m going out. I’ve a very important errand to do.” “Oh, I don’t know about that,” Elliott said; “it’s almost six o’clock, Aunt Abby. Where are you going?” “I’ve got an errand--a very important errand--an appointment, in fact. I must go--don’t you dare oppose me, Mason. You’ll be sorry if you do!” Even as she spoke, the old lady was scurrying to her room, from which she returned shortly, garbed for the street. “All right,” Stone said, in reply to a whisper from Fibsy, and the boy offered, respectfully: “Let me go with you, Miss Ames. It ain’t fittin’ you should go alone. It’s ‘most dark.” “Come on, boy,” Aunt Abby regarded him kindly; “I’d be glad of your company.” At the street door, the old lady asked for a taxicab, and the strangely assorted pair were soon on their way. “You’re a bright lad, Fibsy,” she said; “by the way, what’s your real name--I forget.” “Terence, ma’am; Terence McGuire. I wish’t I was old enough to be called McGuire! I’d like that.” “I’ll call you that, if you wish. You’re old for your age, I’m sure. How old are you?” “Goin’ on about fifteen or sixteen--I think. I sort’a forget.” “Nonsense! You can’t forget your age! Why do they call you Fibsy?” “‘Cause I’m a born liar--’scuse me--a congenital prevaricator, I meant to say. You see, ma’am, it’s necessary in my business not always to employ the plain unvarnished. But don’t be alarmed, ma’am; when I take a fancy to anybuddy, as I have to you, ma’am, I don’t never lie to ‘em. Not that I s’pose you’d care, eh, ma’am?” Aunt Abby laughed. “You are a queer lad! Why, I’m not sure I’d care, if it didn’t affect me in any way. I’m not responsible for your truthfulness--though I don’t mind advising you that you ought to be a truthful boy.” “Land, ma’am! Don’t you s’pose I know that? But, honest now, are you always just exactly, abserlutely truthful, yourself?” “Certainly I am! What do you mean by speaking to me like that?” “Well, don’t you ever touch up a yarn a little jest sort’a to make it more interestin’ like? Most ladies do--that is, most ladies of intelligence and brains--which you sure have got in plenty!” “There, there, boy; I’m afraid I’ve humored you too much you’re presuming.” “I presume I am. But one question more, while we’re on this absorbin’ subject. Didn’t you, now, just add a jot or a tittle to that ghost story you put over? Was it every bit on the dead level?”