"Maybe. But whatever's back of it may incriminate Young to the extent of trying to get the pin from Miss Clyde, perhaps even having stolen the receipt from Bannard, but it positively lets him out of any implication in the murder." "Oh--I don't know." "Why, child, if he was really at Joe Young's house from noon till four o'clock, how could he have been here at the time Mrs. Pell was killed?" "He couldn't." Fibsy was taciturn, but his knitted brow told of deep thought. "I got a hunch, Mr. Stone, that's all I can say for the minute--it mayn't be right, and then again it may, but--I got a hunch!" "All right, Fibs, work it out your own way. But remember, that alibi stands. I can see a leak in a story as quickly as the next man, but that Joe Young is honest as the day, and his wife is too. And when they assert--we telephoned them, you know--when they assert that Charlie Young was there at that time, I believe he was." "I believe it, too, Mr. Stone. Now, what about that dime?" Fleming Stone took his strong magnifying-glass and studied the coin. "Nothing on it, Fibs, except what belongs there. It might have been, as I hoped, that the keyword was one of these words that are stamped on, but I tried them all, any dime was all right for that. This particular ten-cent piece has no distinguishing characteristics that I can see. The date is of no help, I think, for unless I'm altogether wrong as to the type of cipher, figures are not usable. But I'll keep it safe until I'm sure it's no good." "All right, Mr. Stone. Now, I guess I'll work on my hunch! Wanta help?" "Yes, if it isn't beyond my power." "Oh, come now," and Fibsy blushed scarlet at the realization that he had seemed to plume himself on his own cleverness, "but here's the way I'm goin' about it. Say I'm the murderer. Say that door's locked on this side." They were alone in Mrs. Pell's sitting room. "Let's lock it, to help along the local color," suggested Stone, and he did so. "Yes, sir. Now--but say, Mr. Stone, wait a minute. What became of those ropes?" "Ropes?" "Yes, that the murderer bound her ankles with and her wrists. Weren't we told that there were marks on her wrists and ankles where she'd been bound with ropes?" "Yes, well, the murderer took those away with him." "Did he 'bring 'em with him?" "Probably." "Then it wasn't Mr. Bannard. If he killed his aunt, which he didn't, he never came up here with a load of ropes and things! But never mind that, now. Say I'm the murderer. I've attacked the old lady and I've got the paper I wanted, and all that. Now, how do I get out!" Fleming Stone watched the boy, fascinated. Absorbed in the spirit of his imagined predicament, Fibsy stood, his bright eyes darting about the room, as if really in search of a means of exit. CHAPTER XVIII SOLUTION AT LAST