“Nor has it ever been cleaned with gasoline,” mused Miss Ames, “and yet, McGuire, nothing, to my dying day, can ever convince me that I am mistaken on those two subjects.  I’m just as sure as I can be.”

“I’m sure, too.  Listen here, Miss Ames.  There’s a great little old revelation due in about a:  day or so, and I wish you’d lay low.  Will you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why, don’t do or say much about the affair.  Let it simmer.  I’m on the warpath, and so’s Mr. Stone, and we’re comin’ out on top, if we don’t have no drawbacks.  So, don’t trot round to clarviants or harp on that there ‘vision’ of yours, will you?”

“My boy, I’m only too glad to keep away from the subject.  I’m worried to death with it all.  And if I can’t do any good by my efforts, I’ll willingly ‘lay low’ as you ask.”

“All right, ma’am.  Now, I’m off, and I’ll be back here when I come again.  So long.”

Fibsy went down in the service elevator and forthwith proceeded to interview the rubbish man of the house and some other functionaries.

By dint of much prodding of memory, assisted by judicious silver offerings, he finally learned that there was an apartment occupied by a couple with four children, who, it appeared, consumed large quantities of jam of all flavors.  At least, their rubbish was bristling with empty jam pots, and the deduction was logical.

Seemingly unimpressed, Fibsy declared it was pickle-fiends he was searching for, and departed, outwardly crestfallen, but inwardly elated.

Going out of doors, he walked to the corner of Park Avenue, and turned into the side street.

Crossing that street to get a better view, he looked up the side of the big apartment house, and his gaze paused at the window in the tenth story which was in Miss Ames’ sleeping-room.  Two floors below this was the apartment of the family who were reputed jam eaters.

Fibsy looked intently at all the windows.  The one next Miss Ames’ was, he knew, in the Embury’s pantry.  Hence, the one two stories below was in the Patterson’s pantry the Patterson being the aforesaid family.

And to the boy’s astonished and delighted eyes, there on the pantry window-sill sat what was unmistakably a jam jar!

So far, so good.  But what did it mean?  Fibsy had learned that Mr. Patterson was a member of the Metropolitan Athletic Club and was greatly interested in its presidential election—­which election, owing to the death of one of the candidates had been indefinitely postponed.

But further investigation of Mr. Patterson was too serious a matter for the boy to undertake.  It must be referred to Fleming Stone.

So Fibsy glued his eyes once more to that fascinating jam jar up on the eighth-story window-sill, and slowly walked away.

Under his breath he was singing, “Raz Berry Jam!  Raz Berry Jam!’—­” to the tune of a certain march from Lohengrin, which somehow represented to his idea the high note of triumph.