He wagged his wise little head. “Where is she?” Stone asked, confident that the boy could tell. He knew of Fibsy’s almost clairvoyant powers of divining truth in certain situations. “Want her here?” he asked, laconically. “Yes.” “I’ll get her.” Snatching his cap, he darted from the house, but he was closely followed by Maurice Trask. Lockwood would have stopped Trask, but Stone said: “Let him go. This thing is coming to a crisis—Trask will help it along.” Fibsy went toward the Adams house, but stopped at the house next door to it. This was the home of Emily Bates. Ringing that lady’s doorbell, Fibsy asked to see her. “Mrs. Bates,” he said, politely, while Trask listened, “we want to see Miss Austin, please.” “Anita!” said Mrs. Bates, flurriedly; “why—she—she isn’t—” “Oh, yes, she is here,” said the boy, patiently, rather than rudely. “We have to see her, you see.” “Here I am,” said Miss Mystery, coming in from the next room. “I think,” she said turning to Mrs. Bates, “I think, as you advised me, I’ll tell all.” “Don’t tell it here!” cried Fibsy. “Please, Miss Austin—don’t spill your yarn here—oh, I mean, don’t—don’t divulge—” The unusual word nearly choked the excited boy, who always in moments of strong emotion lapsed into careless English, but who tried not to. “Now, look here,” Maurice Trask put in. “Here’s where I take hold. Miss Austin, you have told your story to Mrs. Bates?” “Yes,” said, Anita, looking very sad, but determined. “Then you tell it to me. I’m heir to the Waring estate, and so I have a right to know all you know about—the family.” His knowing look proved to Anita that he assumed also her right to be classed with “the family” and she looked at him in astonishment. “You know?” she cried. “Yes—I know,” he spoke very sternly. “And I insist upon a private interview with you, before you tell your story to any one else.” “You shall have it, then,” she said, and her eyes grew grave. “Mrs. Bates, will you and Terence leave us alone for ten minutes. That will be long enough, and then, I’ll go to see Mr. Stone—if necessary.” “Now, look here,” Trask said, as the door closed after the others, “I know who you are.” “I don’t believe it,” and Miss Mystery looked at him straight from beneath the “Truesdell brows.” “Well, anyway, I know you are a Truesdell connection.” “Yes, I am. Go on.” “I don’t know just what branch,” he went on, a little lamely. “But it’s a branch strong enough to hold me—and also to interfere with this heirship of yours.” “Can’t be. There’s no Truesdell so close to John Waring as I am.” “You think so? Then listen.” As Miss Mystery told him her story, the man’s face fell, he sat, almost petrified with astonishment, and when she had finished the short but amazing recital, he said: “My heavens! What are you going to do?” “I don’t know what to do.” “If you tell—I—” “Of course you do.” “And if you don’t tell—then John Waring’s name is left unstained—”