"No," agreed Hughes, "when Bannard came up here Sunday morning on his bicycle, he had no thought for the day's news! He had other plans ahead. He carried that paper up here without reading it, and he left it here, also unopened." "Might 'a' been opened an' folded up again," offered Fibsy. "It has, too." "I did that," said Hughes, importantly. "I opened it, the first time I saw it, naturally one would, and I refolded it exactly as it was. It's of no further value as evidence, but I made sure it hadn't been read. You can always tell if a paper's been read or not." "Sure you can," agreed Fibsy. "Where's this Mr. Bannard live?" "In bachelor apartments in New York," said Iris. "I mean, _where_ in New York?" the boy persisted "West Forty-fourth Street." "He ain't the murderer," and Fibsy handed the newspaper, that he had been glancing over, back to Hughes. "You darling!" cried Iris, excitedly, grasping Fibsy's two hands. "Of course he isn't. But how do you know?" "Don't go too fast, Fibs," said Fleming Stone, smiling with understanding at the boy. "Shall we say the real murderer lives somewhere near Bob Grady's place?" "Yes, sir, _yes_! O Lord, what a muddle!" Again the boy stood in front of the fireplace, musing deeply. "New?" he said, turning to the electric lamp on the nearby table. "Yes," said Iris, puzzled at his actions. "When the man knocked Auntie down the table was overturned and the lamp smashed to bits. We put a new one in its place." "Oh, all right. Now where was that cigarette stub found, and how far was it burned?" Hughes disliked to answer the boy's questions, but Fleming Stone turned expectantly toward him, so he replied, "It was on the desk, and it was about half-smoked." "And this poker? Did it lie here, where it is now? Wasn't she hit with it?" "Those things have all been thrashed out," replied Hughes, a little petulantly. "No, she wasn't hit with the poker, she was flung down and her head knocked onto the sharp knob on the fender." "How do you know?" "There's a blood stain on the brass knob, and her head was right by it. The poker is two feet away." "Might 'a' been used, all the same," and Fibsy stared at it. "Howsumever, that don't count. We've got her dead, and we've got to find out who did it--and, so far, it wasn't Mr. Bannard." "When will it begin to be Mr. Bannard?" said Hughes, with fine sarcasm. "I mean," Fibsy returned, quietly, "so far, they ain't nothin' to implicate Mr. Bannard. Somethin' might turn up, though. But I don't think so. And anyway, the problem, first of all, ain't _who_, but _how_. That's what we must hunt out first, eh, Mr. Stone?" "Very well, Terence," Stone spoke abstractedly, "you attend to that, while I find the pin. It seems to me that is the most important thing----" "Ain't that F. S. all over!" cried Fibsy, admiringly. "Puts his finger on the very spot! An' me a babblin' foolishness about findin' how the chappie got in!"