"You see, sir," he said, this time, "that knife is in this house. It's gotter be. That lady left the house in a mighty hurry but all the same she didn't go out a brandishin' of a carvin'-knife! Nor did she take it along an drop it in the street or an ash can for it'd been found. So, she siccreted it summer, an' it's still in the house--unless--yes, unless she has taken it away since. You know, Mr. Stone, the Van Allen has been in this house more times than you'd think for. Yes, sir, she has." "How do you know?" "Lots o' ways. Frinst' on Sat'day, I noticed a clean squarish place in the dust on a table in the lady's bedroom, an' it's where a book was. That book disappeared durin' Friday night. I don't remember seein' the book, I didn't notice it, to know what book it was, but the clean place in the dust couldn't get there no other way. Well, all is, it shows Miss Vick comes an' goes pretty much as she likes--or did till you'n me camped out here." "Then you think she left the knife here that night, and has since returned and taken it away?" "I donno," Fibsy scowled in his effort to deduce the truth. "Let's look!" He darted from the room and up the stairs. Stone rose to follow. "That boy is uncanny at times," he said, seriously. "I'm only too glad to follow his intuitions, and not seldom; he's all right." We went upstairs, and then on up to the next floor. Fibsy was in Vicky Van's dressing room, staring about him. He stood in the middle of the floor, his hands in his pockets, wheeling round on one heel. "They say she ran upstairs 'fore she flew the coop," he murmured, not looking at us. "That Miss Weldon said that. Well, if she did, she natchelly came up here for a cloak an' bonnet. I'll never believe that level-headed young person went out into the cold woild in her glad rags, an' no coverin'. Well, then, say, she lef' that knife here, locked up good an' plenty. Where--_where_, I say, would she siccrete it?" He glared round the room, as if trying to wrest the secret from its inanimate contents. "Mr. Stone says that walls have tongues. I believe it, an' I know these walls are jest yellin' the truth at me, an' yet, I'm so soul-deef I can't make out their lingo! Well, let's make a stab at it. Mr. Stone, I'll lay you that knife is in some drawer or cubbid in this here very room." "Maybe, Fibsy," said Stone, cheerfully. "Where shall we look first?" "All over." And Fibsy darted to a wardrobe and began feeling among the gowns and wraps hanging there. With a touch as light as a pickpocket's he slid his lightning-like fingers through the folds of silk and tulle, and turned back with a disappointed air. "Frisked the whole pack; nothin' doin'," he grumbled. "But don't give up the ship." We didn't. Having something definite to do, we did it thoroughly, and two men and a boy fingered every one of Vicky Van's available belongings in an amazingly short space of time.