“Oh, he doesn’t lie to me,” Stone assured her; “nor does he tell whoppers at any time. Only, it’s his habit to shade the truth when it seems to him advisable. I do not defend this habit; in fact, I have persuaded him to stop it, to a degree. But you know how hard it is to reform entirely.” “It won’t affect his usefulness, since he doesn’t lie to his employer,” Appleby said, “and, too, it’s none of our business. I’ve engaged Mr. Stone to solve the mystery of my father’s death, and I’m prepared to give him full powers. He may conduct his investigations on any plan he chooses. My only stipulation is that he shall find a criminal outside the Wheeler family.” “A difficult and somewhat unusual stipulation,” remarked Stone. “Why difficult?” Dan Wheeler said, quickly. “Because, with three people confessing a crime, and no one else even remotely suspected, save a mysterious and perhaps mythical bugle-player, it does not seem an easy job to hunt up and then hunt down a slayer.” “But you’ll do it,” begged Appleby, almost pleadingly, “for it must be done.” “We’ll see,” Stone replied. “And now tell me more about the fire in the garage. It occurred at the time of the shooting, you say? What started it?” But nobody knew what started it. “How could we know?” asked Jeff Allen. “It was only a small fire and the most it burned was the robe in Mr. Appleby’s own car and a motor coat that was also in the car.” “Whose coat?” asked Stone. “Mine,” said Keefe, ruefully. “A bit of bad luck, too, for it was a new one. I had to get another in place of it.” “And you think the fire was the result of a dropped cigarette or match by Mr. Appleby’s chauffeur?” “I don’t know,” returned Keefe. “He denies it, of course, but it must have been that or an incendiary act of some one.” “Maybe the bugler person,” suggested Stone. “Maybe,” assented Keefe, though he did not look convinced. “I think Mr. Keefe thinks it was the work of my own men,” said Dan Wheeler. “And it may have been. There’s one in my employ who has an ignorant, brutal spirit of revenge, and if he thought Samuel Appleby was inimical to me, he would be quite capable of setting fire to the Appleby car. That may be the fact of the case.” “It may be,” agreed Stone. “Doubtless we can find out——” “How?” asked Allen. “That would be magician’s work, I think.” “A detective has to be a magician,” Stone smiled at him. “We quite often do more astounding tricks than that.” “Go to it, then!” cried Appleby. “That’s the talk I like to hear. Questions and answers any of us can put over. But the real detecting is like magic. At least, I can’t see how it’s done. Duff in, Mr. Stone. Get busy.” The group dispersed then, Fleming Stone going to his room and the others straying off by twos or threes. Burdon, who had said almost nothing during the confab, declared he wanted a talk with the great detective alone, and would await his pleasure.