“Poor old Fibs, that was an experience!  Looks like the Hanlon person is one to be reckoned with.  But it doesn’t prove him mixed up in the murder mystery in any way.”

“No, sir, it don’t.  It’s only made me sore on him—­and sore on my own account, too!” Fibsy grinned ruefully.  “Me feet’s that blistered—­and I’m lame all over!”

“Poor boy!  You see, he’s a sprinter from ’way back.  His stunts on that newspaper work prove he can take long walks without turning a hair.”

“Yes, but its croolty to animiles to drag a young feller like me along, too.  I’ve got his number.  Just you wait, Cele!  Remember, Mr. Stone, he played spook-catcher to Miss Ames.  That means something, sir.”

“It does, indeed.  This is a great old case, Fibsy.  Are you getting a line on it?”

“I think so, sir,” and the lad looked very earnest.  “Are you?”

“A strange one.  But, yet, a line.  To-day, Fibs, I want you to interview that Mrs, Desternay.  You can do it better than I, jolly her along, and find out if she’s fried or foe of Mrs, Embury.”

“Yessir.  An’ kin I do a little sleuthin’ on my own?”

“What sort?”

“Legitermit—­I do assure you, sir.”

When Fibsy assumed this deeply earnest air, Stone knew some clever dodge was in his mind, and he found it usually turned out well, so he said, “Go ahead, my boy; I trust you.”

“Thank yer,” and Fibsy devoted himself to the remainder of his breakfast, while Stone read the morning paper.

An hour later Terence McGuire presented himself at the Embury home and asked for Miss Ames.

“Good morning, ma’am,” he said, as he smiled brightly at her.  “Howlja like to join me in a bit of investergation that’ll proberly end up in a s’lution of the mystery?”

“I’d like it first rate,” replied Miss Ames, with enthusiasm.  “When do we begin?”

“Immejitly.  Where’s Mis’ Embury?”

“In her room.”

“No use a-disturbin’ her, but I want’a see the jersey—­the gymnasium jersey your ghost wore.”

Aunt Abby looked disappointed.  She had hoped for something more exciting.

But she said, “I’ll get it,” and went at once to Sanford Embury’s room.

“Thank you,” said Fibsy, as he took it.  But his eager scrutiny failed to disclose any trace of jam on its sleeves.

“Which arm did you bite?” he asked, briefly.

“I didn’t really bite at all,” Miss Ames returned.  “I sort of made a snap at him—­it was more a nervous gesture than an intelligent action.  And I just caught a bit of the worsted sleeve between my lips for an instant—­it was, let me see—­it must have been the left arm—­”

“Well, we’ll examine both sleeves—­and I regret to state, ma’am, there’s no sign of sticky stuff.  This is a fine specimen of a jersey—­I never saw a handsomer one—­but there’s no stain on it, and never has been.”