“You don’t know the Wheelers. I do, and I can see how they would perjure themselves—any of them—and confess to a crime they didn’t commit, to save each other—but it wouldn’t occur to them to invent a murderer—or to say they saw some one they didn’t see. Do you get the difference?” “Being an expert in the lyin’ game, I do,” and Fibsy winked. “It isn’t only that. It’s not only that they’re unwilling to lie about it, but they haven’t the—the, well, ingenuity to contrive a plausible yarn.” “Not being lying experts, just as I said,” Fibsy observed. “Well, we all have our own kind of cleverness. Now, mine is finding things. Want to see an example?” “Yes, I do.” “All right. How far did you say the shooter person stood from his victim?” “About ten feet—but I daresay it might be two or three feet, more or less.” “No; they can judge closer’n that by the powder marks. The truth wouldn’t vary more’n a foot or so, from their say. Now, s’posin’ the shooter did throw the revolver out of the bay window, as the three Wheelers agree, severally, they did do, where would it most likely land?” “In that clump of rhododendrons.” “Yep; if they threw it straight ahead. I s’pose you’ve looked there for it?” “Yes, raked the place thoroughly.” “All right. Now if they slung the thing over toward the right, where would it land?” “On the smooth lawn.” “And you didn’t find it there!” “No. What are you doing? Stringing me?” “Oh, no, sir; oh, no! Now, once again. If they chanced to fling said revolver far to the left, where would it land?” “Why—in that big bed of ferns—if they threw it far enough.” “Looked there?” “No; I haven’t.” “C’mon, let’s take a squint.” Fibsy rose and lounged over toward the fern bed, Burdon following, almost certain he was being made game of. CHAPTER XII THE GARAGE FIRE “Now, watch me,” he said, and with a quick thrust of his arm down among the ferns, he drew forth a revolver, which he turned over to Burdon. “Land o’ goodness!” exclaimed that worthy. “Howja know it was there?” “Knew it must be—looked for it—saw it,” returned the boy, nonchalantly, and then, hearing a short, sharp whistle, he looked up at the house to see Fleming Stone regarding him from an upper window. “Found the weapon, Fibs?” he inquired. “Yes, Mr. Stone.” “All right. Bring it up here, and ask Mr. Burdon to come along.” Delighted at the summons, Burdon followed the boy’s flying feet and they went up to Stone’s rooms. A small and pleasant sitting-room had been given over to the detective, and he admitted his two visitors, then closed the door. “Doing the spectacular, Terence?” Stone said, smiling a little. “Just one grandstand play,” the boy confessed. As a matter of fact, he had located the pistol sometime earlier, but waited to make the discovery seem sensational. “All right; let’s take a look at it.”