“That’s true, Fibs; there must be a mine of information available in that way.”

“There is, sir.  And I caught onto a good deal—­and specially, I learned that Mr. Patterson is in the faction—­or whatever you call it—­that didn’t want Mr. Embury to be president of that club.”

“And so you think Mr. Patterson had a hand in the murder?”

Stone’s face was grave, and there was no hint of banter in his tone, so Fibsy replied, earnestly, “Well, he is the man who has lots of empty jam jars go down in the garbage pails.”

“But he has lots of children.”

“Yes, sir—­four.  Oh, well, I suppose a good many people like raspberry jam.”

“Go on, Fibsy; don’t be discouraged.  As I’ve often told you, one scrap of evidence is worth considering.  A second, against the same man—­is important—­and a third, is decidedly valuable.”

“Yessir, that’s what I’m bankin’ on.  You see, Mr. Patterson, now—­he’s over head and ears in debt to Embury.  He was against Embury for club president.  He was present at the henbane discussion.  And—­he’s an habitual buyer of raspberry jam.”

“Some counts,” and Fleming Stone looked thoughtful.  “But not entirely convincing.  How’d he get in?”

“You know his apartment is directly beneath the Embury apartment —­but two floors below.”

“Might as well be ten floors below.  How could he get in?”

“Somebody got in, Mr. Stone.  You know as well as I do, that neither Mrs, Embury nor Miss Ames committed that murder.  We must face that.”

“Nor did Ferdinand do it.  I’ll go you all those assumptions.”

“All right, sir; then somebody got in from the outside.”

“How?”

“Mr. Stone, haven’t you ever read detective stories where a murder was committed in a room that was locked and double-locked and yet somebody did get in—­and the fun of the story is guessing how he got in.”

“Fiction, my boy, is one thing—­fact is another.”

“No, sir; they’re one and the same thing!”

“All right, son; have it your own way.  Now, if you’re ready to get ready, skittle off to your chain of drug stores, and run down a henbane purchase by any citizen of this little old town, or adjacent boroughs.”

Fibsy went off.  He had recovered from the sense of annoyance at being chaffed by Stone, but it made him more resolved than ever to prove the strange theory he had formed.  He didn’t dignify his idea by the name of theory, but he was doggedly sticking to a notion which, he hoped, would bring forth some strange developments and speedily.

Laying aside his own plans for the moment, he went about Stone’s business, and had little difficulty in finding the nearby druggist whom Hendricks frequently patronized.

“Alvord Hendricks?  Sure he trades here,” said the dapper young clerk.  “He buys mostly shaving-cream and tooth-paste, but here’s where he buys it.”