“Nice old chap,” said Fibsy to Stone. “He stuck to his faked yarn as long as the sticking was good, and then he caved in.” “Open and shut case, Terence?” “Open—but not yet shut, F. Stone. Now, where do we go from here?” “You go where you like, boy. Leave me to grub at this alone.” Without another word Fibsy left the room. He well knew when Stone spoke in that serious tone that great thoughts were forming in that fertile brain and sooner or later he would know of them. But at present his company was not desired. The boy drifted out on the terraced lawn and wandered about among the gardens. He, too, thought, but he could see no light ahead. “S’long as the old man saw her,” he observed to himself, “there’s no more to be said. He never’d say he saw her shoot, if he hadn’t seen her. He’s at the end of his rope, and even if they acquit the lady I don’t want to see her dragged through a trial. But where’s any way of escape? What can turn up to contradict a straight story like that? Who else can testify except the eye-witness who has just spoken? I wonder if he realized himself how conclusive his statement was? But he trusted in F. Stone to get Maida off, somehow. Queer, how most folks think a detective is a magician, and can do the impossible trick!” In a brown study he walked slowly along the garden paths, and was seen by Keefe and Maida, who sat under the big sycamore tree. “Crazy idea, Stone bringing that kid,” Keefe said, with a laugh. “Yes, but he’s a very bright boy,” Maida returned. “I’ve been surprised at his wise observations.” “Poppycock! He gets off his speeches with that funny mixture of newsboy slang and detective jargon, and you think they’re cleverer than they are.” “Perhaps,” agreed Maida, not greatly interested. “But what a strange story Rachel told. Do you believe it, Mr. Keefe?” “Yes, I do. The girl was frightened, I think; first, at the information she tried to divulge, and second, by finding herself in the limelight. She seems to be shy, and I daresay the sudden publicity shook her nerves. But why shouldn’t her story be true? Why should she invent all that?” “I don’t know, I’m sure. But it didn’t sound like Rachel—the whole thing, I mean. She seemed acting a part.” “Nonsense! You imagine that. But never mind her, I’ve something to tell you. I know—Maida, mind you, I know what Mr. Appleby meant by the speech which I took to be ‘Mr. Keefe and the airship.’” Maida’s face went white. “Oh, no!” she cried, involuntarily. “Oh, no!” “Yes,” Keefe went on, “and I know now he said heirship. Not strange I misunderstood, for the words are of the same sound—and, then I had no reason to think of myself in connection with an heirship!” “And—and have you now?” “Yes, I have. I’ve been over Mr. Appleby’s papers—as I had a right to do. You know I was his confidential secretary, and he kept no secrets from me—except those he wanted to keep!” “Go on,” said Maida, calm now, and her eyes glistening with an expression of despair.