"It's true, Calhoun," said Fleming Stone. "I know it's all incredible, but it's true. I couldn't believe it, myself, when Fibsy hinted it to me--for it's his find--to him belongs all the credit--" "Credit!" I groaned. "Credit for fastening this lie, this base lie--oh, you are well named Fibsy!--on the best and loveliest woman that ever lived! For it is a lie! Not a word of truth in it. A distorted notion of a crazy brain! A--" "Hold on, Calhoun," remonstrated Stone, and I dare say I was acting like a madman. "Listen to the rest of this more quietly or take your hat and go home." Stone spoke firmly, but not angrily, and I sat still. "Then, here's some more things," Fibsy continued. "I've gone over this house with a eye that sees more'n Mr. Stone's lens, an' it don't magnerfy, neither. I spotted a lot of stuff in the pantry and storeroom. It's all stuff that keeps, you know; little jugs an' pots of fine eatin'--imported table delicacies--that's what they call 'em. Well, an' among 'em was lickures an' things like that. And boxes of candied rose leaves an' salted nuts--oh, all them things. An' that's why I wanted to go to dinner at Mrs. Schuyler's an' see if she liked to eat those things. An' she did! She had the rose leaves an' she had the kind o' lickure that's down in the pantry cupboard in this house. An' she said it was her fav'rite, an' the old girls said she never used to have those things when her husband was runnin' the house--an' oh, dear, can't you see it all?" "Yes, I see it," said Stone, but I still shook my head doggedly and angrily. "I don't see it!" I declared. "There's nothing to all this but a pipe dream! Why shouldn't two women like _Eau de vie de Dantzic_ as a liqueur? It's very fashionable--a sort of fad, just now." "It ain't only this thing or that thing, Mr. Calhoun," said Fibsy, earnestly. "It's the pilin' up of all 'em. An' I ain't through yet. Here's another point. Miss Van Allen, she ain't got any pitchers of nature views--no landscapes nor woodsy dells in this whole house. She jest likes pitchers of people--pretty girls, an' old cavalier gentlemen, an nymps, an' kiddy babies--but all human, you know. Now, Mrs. Schuyler, _she_ don't care anythin' special for nature, neither. I piped up about the beauty scenery out Westchester way an' over in the park, an' it left her cold an' onintrusted. But she has portfolios of world masterpieces, or whatever you call 'em, over to that house, an' they're all figger pieces." "And her writing desk," prompted Stone. "Yessir, that checked up, too. You know, Mr. Calhoun, they ain't nothin' more intim'tly pers'nal than a writin' desk. Well, Miss Van Allen's has a certain make of pen, an' a certain number and kind of pencils. An' Mrs. Schuyler, she uses the same identical styles an' numbers." "And notepaper, I suppose," I flung back, sarcastically.