“It is certainly a new experience for me,” he said, “when a whole family insist on being considered criminals. But I will reserve decision until I can look into matters a little more fully. Now, who can give me any information on the matter, outside of the identity of the criminal?” Jeffrey Allen volunteered the story of the fire, and Keefe told of the strange bugle call that had been heard. “You heard it, Mr. Keefe?” asked Stone, after listening to the account. “No; I was with Mr. Appleby on a trip to Boston. I tell it as I heard the tale from the household here.” Whereupon the Wheeler family corroborated Keefe’s story, and Fleming Stone listened attentively to the various repetitions. “You find that bugler, and you’ve got your murderer,” Curtis Keefe said, bluntly. “You agree, don’t you, Mr. Stone, that it was no phantom who blew audible notes on a bugle?” “I most certainly agree to that. I’ve heard many legends, in foreign countries, of ghostly drummers, buglers and bagpipers, but they are merely legends—I’ve never found anyone who really heard the sounds. And, moreover, those things aren’t even legends in America. Any bugling done in this country is done by human lungs. Now, this bugler interests me. I think, with you, Mr. Keefe, that to know his identity would help us—whether he proves to be the criminal or not.” “He’s the criminal,” Keefe declared, again. “Forgive me, Mr. Stone, if my certainty seems to you presumptuous or forward, but I’m so thoroughly convinced of the innocence of the Wheeler family, that perhaps I am overenthusiastic in my theory.” “A theory doesn’t depend on enthusiasm,” returned Stone, “but on evidence and proof. Now, how can we set about finding this mysterious bugler—whether phantom or human?” “I thought that’s what you’re here to do,” Sam Appleby said, looking helplessly at Fleming Stone. “We are,” piped up Terence McGuire, as Stone made no reply. “That’s our business, and, consequentially, it shall be done.” The boy assumed an air of importance that was saved from being objectionable by his good-humored face and frank, serious eyes. “I’ll just start in and get busy now,” he went on, and rising, he bobbed a funny little bow that included all present, and left the room. It was mid-afternoon, and as they looked out on the wide lawn they saw McGuire strolling slowly, hands in pockets and seemingly more absorbed in the birds and flowers than in his vaunted “business.” “Perhaps McGuire needs a little explanation,” Stone smiled. “He is my right-hand man, and a great help in detail work. But he has a not altogether unearned reputation for untruthfulness. Indeed, his nickname is Fibsy, because of a congenital habit of telling fibs. I advise you of this, because I prefer you should not place implicit confidence in his statements.” “But, Mr. Stone,” cried Maida, greatly interested, “how can he be of any help to you if you can’t depend on what he says?”