"Entirely so," and the handshake that Stone gave me was like a signed and sealed bond, to which I tacitly but none the less truthfully subscribed. CHAPTER XV FIBSY Next morning as I started for my office, I found myself combating a strong impulse to call in at Ruth Schuyler's. I had no errand there, and I knew that if she required my services she would summon me. It was no longer incumbent on me to try to unravel the murder mystery. Fleming Stone had that matter in charge, and his master-mind needed no assistance from me. And yet, I wanted to stop at the Fifth Avenue house, if only for a moment, to reassure myself of Ruth's well-being. Though above me in social rank, the little widow seemed to me a lonely and pathetic woman, and I knew she had begun to depend on me for advice and sympathy. Of course, she could turn to Fleming Stone, but, in a way, he was adviser of the Schuyler sisters, and I knew Ruth hesitated to intrude on his time. I was still uncertain whether to call or not, and as I walked along the few feet between my own house and the Avenue, I crossed the street as I reached Vicky Van's house, and naturally looked at it as I passed. And after I had passed the flight of brownstone steps, and was going along by the iron fence, I turned to look at the area door. This was my performance every morning, and always without thought of seeing anything of importance. But this time the area door stood half-way open, and looking out was a boy, a red-headed chap, with a freckled face and bright, wise eyes. I turned quickly and went in at the area gate. "Who are you?" I demanded, "and what are you doing here?" "I'm Fibsy," he said, as if that settled it. "Fibsy who?" I asked, but I dropped my indignant tone, for the lad seemed to be composedly sure of his rights there. "Aw, jest Fibsy. That's me name, because, if you want to know, because I'm a natural born liar and I fib for a living." He was impudent without being offensive; his wide smile was good-natured and the twinkle in his eye a friendly one. "I got yer number," he said, after a comprehensive survey of my person, "you're C. Calhoun. Ain't you?" "I sure am," I agreed, meeting his taste for the vernacular, "and now for your real name." "Terence McGuire," he smiled, and with a quick gesture he snatched off his cap. "C'mon in, if you like. I'm F. Stone's right-hand man." "What!" I cried, in amazement. "Yep, that's what. I'm--well, I like to call myself his caddy. I follow him round, and hold his clues for him, till he wants one, then I hand it out. See?" "Not entirely. But I gather you're in Mr. Stone's employ." "You bet I am! And I'm on me job twenty-four hours a day." "And what is your job just now?" "Well, since eight A.M. I've been holdin' up this door, waitin' for yer honor to pass by. An' I got you, didn't I?" "Yes, I'm here." I stepped inside and the boy closed the door. We went into the front basement room, where there was a lighted gas stove.