Terence McGuire, sometimes called Fibsy, because of a certain tendency to mendacity, had begun as Stone’s office boy, and, by virtue of his general aptitude for detective work and his utter devotion to Stone, had become a worthwhile and much appreciated assistant. Not only did the lad look after all details of their trips as well as taking care of the offices, but many times his ingenious mind so stimulated or aided Stone’s own, that more often than not they were practically colleagues. They had a compartment to themselves at the end of the car, and they were no sooner started than Stone began to discuss the case with the boy. “I don’t know all the details, of course,” he began, “but it’s a setting after my own heart.” “Then I can guess it,” put in the wise Fibsy. “Man found dead in sealed room.” “You’re a wizard! What made you think of that?” “’Cause that’s the problem you like best, F. Stone. Wise me up some more.” “It’s further interesting, because the victim is a great and good man, in fact, the President-elect of the University of Corinth.” “My! Somebody didn’t want him for president? That the idea?” “Apparently not. Nothing in the letter about that.” “Who wrote the letter?” “The relative who inherits the whole estate.” “He do the job?” “No reason as yet to think so. But the criminal mustn’t be guessed at. The point is, the locked room.” “How was the killing done?” “Stabbed. No weapon found and no way to get in or out of the locked room. Fine problem.” “Yes—if we don’t find a secret stairway—or, a lying servant. Such cases generally fizzle out that way.” “Fibs, you’re a Boy Cassandra.” “What’s that?” Stone explained, for it was his habit to supplement McGuire’s very scant education by bits of information now and then, when time served. “But, there’s a queer clause in the arrangement,” Stone went on, “if we find the evidence leading in a certain direction, the chase is to cease.” “That won’t do.” “Of course not, and I’ll soon make that clear. But I can’t think it will lead in the given direction as that implicates a young girl, and rarely indeed, have I found a criminal answering to that description.” “’Tisn’t usual—but, you know, F. Stone, since the war, girls are so independent and so cocky that there’s no telling what they’ll do. Me for the girl—as a suspect.” “Fibsy, you’re a fool.” “No, sir. I don’t admit it. See here, sir, if they’re so ’fraid s’picion will turn to that girl, there’s reason for it. Yet, as you can guess, if she didn’t do it, they want her skirts entirely cleared.” “Pretty good deduction so far. But we can’t judge rationally until we know the facts.” The facts were told them, when, some hours later, they sat, alone with Maurice Trask in the room where John Waring breathed his last.