“Anything being done?” he asked, finally. “Has Mr. Stone discovered anything of importance?” “Nothing very definite, I fear,” returned Daniel Wheeler. He spoke wearily, and almost despairingly. Anxiety and worry had aged him, even in the last few days. “I do hope, Keefe, that you can be of assistance. You have a keen eye for details, and may know or remember some points that escaped our notice.” “I’m hoping I can help,” Keefe returned with a serious face. “Can I see Stone shortly?” “Yes, now. Come along into the den, he’s in here.” The two men went to the den, where Stone and Fibsy were in deep consultation. “Very glad to see you, Mr. Keefe,” Fleming Stone acknowledged the introduction. “This is McGuire, my young assistant. You may speak frankly before him.” “If I have anything to speak,” said Keefe. “I don’t really know anything I haven’t told, but I may remind Mr. Wheeler of some points he has forgotten.” “Well, let’s talk it all over,” Stone suggested, and they did. Keefe was greatly surprised and impressed by the story of the cook’s having seen a man on the south veranda at the time of the shooting. “But she didn’t see him clearly,” Fibsy added. “Couldn’t she describe him?” “No; she didn’t see him plain enough. But the maid, Rachel, told cook that she saw the man, too, and that he carried a bugle. Cook didn’t see the bugle.” “Naturally not, if she only saw the man vaguely,” said Wheeler. “But, it begins to look as if there must have been a man there and if so, he may have been the criminal.” “Let us hope,” said Keefe, earnestly. “Now, can you find this man, Mr. Stone?” “We’ve got to find him,” Stone returned, “whether we can or not. It’s really a baffling case. I think we’ve discovered the origin of the fire in the garage.” He told the story that Fibsy had learned from the chauffeur, and Keefe was greatly interested. “What are the acids?” he asked. “I don’t know the exact names,” Stone admitted, “but they are of just such powers as Fulton described, and the thing is plausible. Here’s the bottle.” He offered the little vial for inspection and Keefe looked at it with some curiosity. “The theory being,” he said, “that the murderer first arranged for a fire in our car—in Mr. Appleby’s car—and then waited for the fire to come off as planned. Then, at the moment of greatest excitement, he, being probably the man the servants saw—shot through the bay window and killed Mr. Appleby. You were fortunate, Miss Maida, that you weren’t hit first!” “Oh, I was in no danger. I sat well back in the window-seat, and over to one side, out of range of a shot from outside. And, too, Mr. Keefe, I can scarcely discuss this matter of the shot from outside, as I am, myself, the confessed criminal.”