Stepping toward his faithful assistant, Fleming Stone held out his hand, and said, quietly, "Put it there, Terence!" Eagerly the little black paw slipped into the big, strong white one, and the handshake that ensued was all the reward or recognition the happy boy wanted. Stone went upstairs again, and Fibsy whistled gaily as he continued his self-chosen task. Sam, sitting by, cheered him on by continued assertions that he _had_ thrown the pin in the coal-bin, and had _not_ buried it in a crack of the floor. And, as Fibsy had declared, he knew the half-wit now well enough to feel pretty sure when he was telling the truth and when not. Meantime, Stone was pursuing his investigations. That afternoon he drove to Red Fox Inn. He went alone, and by dint of bribes and threats he learned that Charlie Young had been there since the day of the murder, and had instructed the waiter who had served Bannard at his Sunday luncheon to say that Bannard was coming from New York and not going to it. These instructions were made as commands and were backed up by certain forcible arguments that insured their carrying out. It became clear, therefore, that Young was interested in making it seem that Bannard was at Pellbrook on Sunday afternoon instead of Sunday morning, which latter Stone firmly believed to be the case. Further discreet inquiry proved Young to be a frequent visitor at the inn, on occasions when he was in the locality, and that was said to be often, especially of late. Stone went back, exultant, his brain working swiftly and steadily toward his solution of the many still perplexing points. * * * * * Later that afternoon, as it was nearing dusk, a yell from the cellar told, without words, that Fibsy's quest had succeeded. Lucille and Iris followed Fleming Stone's flying footsteps down the stairs and found Fibsy, black but triumphant. "Here's your pinny-pin, Mr. Stone!" he cried, exhausted from fatigue and excitement, and with perspiration streaming down his sooty face. "Don't tell me it mayn't be the one! It's gotter be--oh, F. S., it's _gotter_ be!" Only in moments of strong excitement did Terence address his employer by anything but his dignified name, but this moment was a strenuous one, and Fibsy broke loose. Tears rolled down his cheeks, as he gave the detective a pleading look. "All right, Fibs, I've no doubt it's the one. Pins don't grow much in coal-holes, and though it may not be----" a glance at the woeful countenance made him quickly revise his speech, "But it is! I'm sure it is," he finished, smiling kindly at the big-eyed blackamoor. "Sure! sure!" cried Sam, capering about, "nice pinny-pin! Sam put it there after Missy Iris put it in chair." Fleming Stone looked at the pin curiously. As he had been informed, it was a common pin, of medium size, with nothing about it to distinguish it from its millions of brothers that are lost every day, everywhere.