“I came, Mr. Wheeler,” he said, “to offer you my services. I express no opinion as to who killed Mr. Appleby, but I do know that his son is going to use every means to discover his father’s murderer, and I can’t help thinking you’d be wise to let me take up your case.”

“As a criminal lawyer?” asked Dan Wheeler, quietly.

“No, sir; as a friend and adviser. If you find you need a criminal lawyer, I’ll suggest one – and a good one. But I mean, I’d like to help you in a general way, by consultation and advice. You, if you will pardon me, have lived so long out of the modern world that you are unfitted to cope with this whole situation. I speak frankly – because I am deeply interested – ”

“Just why are you so deeply interested, Mr. Keefe?” Wheeler’s tone was kindly but his glance was sharp at his would-be benefactor.

“I may as well own up,” Keefe said, “I am hard hit by your daughter. Oh, yes, I know she is engaged to young Allen, and I’ve no hope she would ever throw him over for me, but I’m anxious to serve her in any way I can – and I feel pretty sure that I can be of help to you and your family.”

“Well spoken, young man. And your promises are right. I am out of touch with the world, and I should be glad indeed of the advice of an experienced man of business. But, first of all, will you tell me who you think killed Appleby?”

“I will, sir. I’ve no idea it was any of you three people, who have all confessed to the deed, in order to shield one another.”

“Whom then do you suspect?”

“An outside intruder. I have held to this theory from the start, and I am sure it is the true one. Moreover, I think the murderer is the man who blew the bugle – ”

“The phantom bugler!”

“No phantom, but a live man. Phantoms do not blow on bugles except in old English legends. A bugle sounded in New England and heard by several people, was blown by human lungs. Find your bugler and you’ve found your murderer.”

“I wonder if you can be right!”

Wheeler fell into a brown study and Keefe watched him closely. His bugler theory was offered in an effort to find out what Wheeler thought of it, and Wheeler’s response ought to show whether his own knowledge of the murder precluded the bugler or not.

Apparently it did, for he sighed and said: “Of course the person who sounded that bugle was a live person, but I cannot think it had any connection with Mr. Appleby’s death. Even granting somebody might have been wicked enough to try to frighten my wife, yet there is no reason to think any one wishing to kill Samuel Appleby would know of the old legend in Mrs. Wheeler’s family.”

“True enough. But it is possible, and, in my opinion, that is the only direction to look.”

“But what direction? How can you find out who blew that bugle?”

“I don’t know yet, but I shall try to find out. As a matter of fact very little inquiry has been made. Those two detectives, while intelligent enough, don’t have a very wide horizon. They’ve concluded that the assassin was – well, was named Wheeler – and they’re only concerned to discover the first name. Forgive my plain speaking, but to save yourself and the other two, we must be outspoken.”

“Yes, yes – pray don’t hesitate to say anything you think. I am in a terrible position, Mr. Keefe – more terrible than you can know, and while I am willing to make any sacrifice for my dear ones – it may be in vain – ”

The two men had been alone in the den, but now were joined by Burdon and young Allen.

“Glad to see you back, Mr. Keefe,” Burdon said; “usually we detectives don’t hanker after outside help, but you’ve a good, keen mind, and I notice you generally put your finger on the right spot.”

“All right, Burdon, we’ll work together. Now, Mr. Wheeler, I’m going to ask you to leave us – for there are some details to discuss – ”

Dan Wheeler was only too glad to be excused, and with a sigh of relief he went away to his upstairs quarters.

“Now, it’s this way,” Keefe began; “I’ve been sounding Mr. Wheeler, but I didn’t get any real satisfaction. But here’s a point. Either he did or didn’t kill Mr. Appleby, but in either case, he’s in bad.”

“What do you mean?” asked Allen.

“Why, I’ve inquired about among the servants and, adding our own testimony, I’ve figured it out that Mr. Wheeler was either the murderer or he was over the line on the other side of the house, and in that case has broken his parole and is subject to the law.”

“How do you prove that?” inquired Burdon, interestedly.

“By the story of Miss Wheeler, who says her father was not in the den at all at the time Mr. Appleby was shot. Now, as we know, Mrs. Wheeler ran downstairs at that time, and she, too, says her husband was not in the den. Also she says he was not in the living-room, nor in the hall. This leaves only her own sitting-room, from which Mr. Wheeler could see the fire and into which he was most likely to go for that purpose.”

“He wouldn’t go in that room for any purpose,” declared Allen.

“Not ordinarily, but in the excitement of a fire, men can scarcely refrain from running to look at it, and if he was not in the places he had a right to be, he must have been over on the forbidden ground. So, it comes back to this: either Mr. Wheeler was the murderer, and his wife and daughter have perjured themselves to save him, or he was in a place which, by virtue of the conditions, cancels his pardon. This, I take it, explains Mr. Wheeler’s present perturbed state of mind – for he is bewildered and worried in many ways.”

“Well,” said Allen, “where does all this lead us?”

“It leads us,” Keefe returned, “to the necessity of a lot of hard work. I’m willing to go on record as desiring to find a criminal outside of the Wheeler family. Or to put it bluntly, I want to acquit all three of them – even if – ”

“Even if one of them is guilty?” said Burdon.

“Well, yes – just that. But, of course I don’t mean to hang an innocent man! What I want is to get a verdict for persons unknown.”

“I’m with you,” said Allen. “It’s all wrong, I know, but – well, I can’t believe any of the Wheelers really did it.”

“You do believe it, though!” Keefe turned on him, sharply. “And what’s more, you believe the criminal is the one of the three whom you least want it to be!”

Keefe’s meaning was unmistakable, and Allen’s flushed and crestfallen face betrayed his unwilling assent. Unable to retort – even unable to speak, he quickly left the room.

Keefe closed the door and turned to Burdon.

“That was a test,” he said; “I’m not sure whether Allen suspects Miss Wheeler – or not – ”

“He sure acts as if he does,” Burdon said, his face drawn with perplexity. “But, I say, Mr. Keefe, haven’t you ever thought it might have been Jeffrey Allen himself?”

“Who did the shooting?”

“Yes; he had all the motives the others had – ”

“But not opportunity. Why, he was at the garage fire – where I was – ”

“Yes, but he might have got away long enough for – ”

“Nonsense, man, nothing of the sort! We were together, fighting the flames. The two chauffeurs were with us – the Wheelers’ man, and Mr. Appleby’s. We used those chemical extinguishers – ”

“I know all that – but then – he might have slipped away, and in the excitement you didn’t notice – ”

“Not a chance! No, take my word for it, the three Wheelers are the exclusive suspects – unless we can work in that bugler individual.”

“It’s too many for me,” Burdon sighed. “And Hallen, he’s at his wit’s end. But you’re clever at such things, sir, and Mr. Appleby, he’s going to get a big detective from the city.”

“You don’t seem to mind being discarded!”

“No, sir. If anybody’s to fasten a crime on one of those Wheelers, I don’t want to be the one to do it.”

“Look here, Burdon, how about Wheeler’s doing it in self-defence? I know a lot about those two men, and Appleby was just as much interested in getting Wheeler out of his way as vice versa. If Appleby attacked and Wheeler defended, we can get him off easy.”

“Maybe so, but it’s all speculation, Mr. Keefe. What we ought to get is evidence – testimony – and that’s hard, for the only people to ask about it are – ”

“Are the criminals themselves.”

“The suspected criminals – yes, sir.”

“There are others. Have you quizzed all the servants?”

“I don’t take much stock in servants’ stories.”

“You’re wrong there, my man. That principle is a good one in ordinary matters, but when it comes to a murder case, a servant’s testimony is as good as his master’s.”

Burdon made no direct response to Keefe’s suggestion, but he mulled it over in his slow-going mind, and as a result, he had a talk with Rachel, who was ladies’ maid to both Maida and her mother.

The girl bridled a little when Burdon began to question her.

“Nobody seemed to think it worth while to ask me anything,” she said, “so I held my tongue. But if so be you want information, you ask and I’ll answer.”

“I doubt if she really knows anything,” Burdon thought to himself, judging from her air of self-importance, but he said:

“Tell me anything you know of the circumstances at the time of the murder.”

“Circumstances?” repeated Rachel, wrinkling her brow.

“Yes; for instance, where was Mrs. Wheeler when you heard the shot?”

“I didn’t say I heard the shot.”

“Didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Go on, then; don’t be foolish, or you’ll be sorry for it!”

“Well, then, Mrs. Wheeler was downstairs – she had just left her room – ”

“Here, let me get this story straight. How long had she been in her room? Were you there with her?”

“Yes; we had been there half an hour or so. Then, we heard noise and excitement and a cry of fire. Mrs. Wheeler rushed out of her room and ran downstairs – and I followed, naturally.”

“Yes; and what did you see?”

“Nothing special – I saw a blaze of light, through the front door – ”

“The north door?”

“Of course – the one toward the garage – and I saw the garage was on fire, so I thought of nothing else – then.”

“Then? What did you think of later?”

“I remembered that I saw Mr. Wheeler in the living-room – in the north end of it – where he never goes – ”

“You know about his restrictions?”

“Oh, yes, sir. The servants all know – we have to. Well, it was natural, poor man, that he should go to look at the fire!”

“You’re sure of this, Rachel?”

“Sure, yes; but don’t let’s tell, for it might get the master in trouble.”

“On the contrary it may get him out of trouble. To break his parole is not as serious a crime as murder. And if he was in the north end of the living-room he couldn’t have been in the den shooting Mr. Appleby.”

“That’s true enough. And neither could Mrs. Wheeler have done it.”

“Why not?”

“Well – that is – she was right ahead of me – ”

“Did you keep her in sight?”

“No; I was so excited myself, I ran past her and out to the garage.”

“Who was there?”

“Mr. Allen and Mr. Keefe and the two chauffeurs and the head gardener and well, most all the servants. The men were fighting the fire, and the women were standing back, looking on.”

“Yelling, I suppose.”

“No; they were mostly quiet. Cook was screaming, but nobody paid any attention to her.”

“The fire was soon over?”

“Yes, it was a little one. I suppose that chauffeur of Mr. Appleby’s dropped a match or something – for our servants are too well trained to do anything of the sort. We’re all afraid of fire.”

“Well, the fire amounted to little, as you say. Curious it should occur at the time of the murder.”

“Curious, indeed, sir. Do you make anything out of that?”

“Can’t see anything in it. Unless the murderer started the fire to distract attention from himself. In that case, it couldn’t have been any of the Wheelers.”

“That it couldn’t. They were all in the house.”

“Miss Maida – did you see her at the time?”

“I caught a glimpse of her as I ran through the hall.”

“Where was she?”

“In the den; standing near the bay window.”

“Well, we’ve pretty well planted the three. Mrs. Wheeler on the stairs, Mr. Wheeler, you say, in the living-room, where he had no right to be, and Miss Maida – ”

“Oh, Miss Maida didn’t do it! She couldn’t! That lovely young lady!”

“There, Rachel, that will do. You’ve given your testimony, now it’s not for you to pass judgment. Go about your business, and keep a quiet tongue. No babbling – you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” and the maid went away, her attitude still one of importance, and her face wearing a vague smile.

Meantime Curtis Keefe was having a serious talk with Maida.

His attitude was kindly and deferential, but he spoke with a determined air as he said:

“Miss Wheeler, you know, I am sure, how much I want to help you, and how glad I will be if I can do so. But, first of all I must ask you a question. What did Mr. Appleby mean when he said to you something about Keefe and the airship?”

Maida looked at him with a troubled glance. For a minute she did not speak, then she said, calmly: “I am not at liberty to tell you what we were talking about then, Mr. Keefe, but don’t you remember Mr. Appleby said that you were not the Keefe referred to?”

“I know he said that, but – I don’t believe it.”

“I am not responsible for your disbelief,” she drew herself up with a dignified air. “And I must ask you not to refer to that matter again.”

“Don’t take that attitude,” he begged. “At least tell me what Keefe he did mean. There can be no breach of confidence in that.”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Because I know Mr. Appleby had a big airship project under consideration. Because I know he contemplated letting me in on the deal, and it was a most profitable deal. Had he lived, I should have asked him about it, but since he is dead, I admit I want to know anything you can tell me of the matter.”

Involuntarily Maida smiled a little, and the lovely face, usually so sad, seemed more beautiful than ever to the man who looked at her.

“Why do you smile?” he cried, “but whatever the reason, keep on doing so! Oh, Maida, how wonderful you are!”

A glance of astonishment made him quickly apologize for his speech.

“But,” he said, “I couldn’t help it. Forgive me, Miss Wheeler, and, since you can smile over it, I’m more than ever anxious to know about the airship deal.”

“And I can tell you nothing,” she declared, “because I know nothing of any such matter. If Mr. Appleby was interested in an airship project, I know nothing of it. The matter he mentioned to me was, I am positively certain, not the deal you speak of.”

“I believe that. Your face is too honest for you to speak an untruth so convincingly. And now assure me that I am not the Keefe he referred to, and I will never open the subject again.”

But this Maida could not say truthfully, and though she tried, her assertion was belied by drooping eyes and quivering lips.

“You were not,” she uttered, but she did not look at him, and this time Curtis Keefe did not believe her.

“I was,” he said calmly, but he made no further effort to get the whole truth from her. “I’m sorry you can’t confide fully in me, but I shall doubtless learn all I want to know from Mr. Appleby’s papers.”

“You – you have them in charge?” Maida asked, quite evidently agitated at the thought.

“Yes, of course, I’m his confidential secretary. That’s why, Miss Wheeler, it’s better for you to be frank with me – in all things. Has it never occurred to you that I’m the man who can best help you in this whole moil of troubles?”

“Why, no,” she said, slowly, “I don’t believe it ever has.”

“Then realize it now. Truly, dear Miss Wheeler, I am not only the one who can best help you, but I am the only one who can help you at all – please try to see that.”

“Why should I want help?”

“For half a dozen very good reasons. First, I suppose you know that you are in no enviable position regarding the death of Mr. Appleby. Oh, I know you didn’t kill him – ”

“But I did!”

“If you did, you couldn’t take it so calmly – ”

“How dare you say I take it calmly? What do you know about it? Just because I don’t go about in hysterics – that’s not my nature – is no sign that I’m not suffering tortures – ”

“You poor, sweet child – I know you are! Oh, little girl, dear little girl – can’t you – won’t you let me look out for you – ”

The words were right enough, but the tone in which they were uttered, the look that accompanied them, frightened Maida. She knew at once how this man regarded her.

Intuition told her it was better not to resent his speech or meaning, so she only said, quietly:

“Look out for me – how?”

“Every way. Give yourself to me – be my own, own little Maida – ”

“Mr. Keefe, stop! You forget you are talking to an engaged girl – ”

“I did forget – please forgive me.” In a moment he was humble and penitent. “I lost my head. No, Miss Wheeler, I ask no reward, I want to help you in any and every way – remembering you are to be the bride of Mr. Allen.”

“Only after I’m acquitted of this crime. They never convict a woman, do they, Mr. Keefe?”

“So that’s what you’re banking on! And safely, too. No, Miss Wheeler, no judge or jury would ever convict you of murder. But, all the same, it’s a mighty unpleasant process that brings about your acquittal, and I advise you not to go through with it.”

“But I’ve got to. I’ve confessed my crime; now they have to try me – don’t they?”

“You innocent baby. Unless – look here, you’re not – er – stringing me, are you?”

“What does that mean?”

“I mean, you didn’t really do the job, did you?”

“I did.” The calm glance of despair might have carried conviction to a less skeptical hearer, but Keefe only looked puzzled.

“I can’t quite make you out,” he declared; “either you’re a very brave heroine – or – ”

“Or?” queried Maida.

“Or you’re nutty!”

Maida laughed outright. “That’s it,” she said, and her laughter became a little hysterical. “I am nutty, and I own up to it. Do you think we can enter a plea of insanity?”

Keefe looked at her, a new thought dawning in his mind.

“That might not be at all a bad plan,” he said, slowly; “are you in earnest?”

“I don’t know. Honestly, I think of so many plans, and discard them one after the other. But I don’t want to be convicted!”

“And you shan’t! There are more persons in this world than the three Wheelers! And one of them may easily be the murderer we’re seeking.”

“Which one?” asked Maida.

“The Phantom Bugler,” returned Keefe.

CHAPTER XI
FLEMING STONE

Next day brought the advent of two men and a boy to Sycamore Ridge.

Samuel Appleby, determined to discover the murderer of his father and convinced that it was none of the Wheeler family, had brought Fleming Stone, the detective, to investigate the case. Stone had a young assistant who always accompanied him, and this lad, Terence McGuire by name, was a lively, irrepressible chap, with red hair and freckles.

But his quick thinking and native wit rendered him invaluable to Stone, who had already hinted that McGuire might some day become his successor.

The Wheeler family, Jeffrey Allen, Curtis Keefe, and Burdon, the local detective, were all gathered in Mr. Wheeler’s den to recount the whole story to Fleming Stone.

With grave attention, Stone listened, and young McGuire eagerly drank in each word, as if committing a lesson to memory. Which, indeed, he was, for Stone depended on his helper to remember all facts, theories and suggestions put forward by the speakers.

Long experience had made Fleming Stone a connoisseur in “cases,” and, by a classification of his own, he divided them into “express” and “local.” By this distinction he meant that in the former cases, he arrived quickly at the solution, without stop or hindrance. The latter kind involved necessary stops, even side issues, and a generally impeded course, by reason of conflicting motives and tangled clues.

As he listened to the story unfolded by the members of the party, he sighed, for he knew this was no lightning express affair. He foresaw much investigation ahead of him, and he already suspected false evidence and perhaps bribed witnesses.

Yet these conclusions of his were based quite as much on intuition as on evidence, and Stone did not wholly trust intuition.

Samuel Appleby was the principal spokesman, as he was the one chiefly concerned in the discovery of the criminal and the avenging of his father’s death. Moreover, he was positive the deed had not been done by any one of the Wheeler family, and he greatly desired to prove himself right in this.

“But you were not here at the time, Mr. Appleby,” Stone said, “and I must get the story from those who were. Mr. Keefe, you came with Mr. Appleby, senior, and, also, as his confidential secretary you are in a position to know of his mental attitudes. Had he, to your knowledge, any fear, any premonition of evil befalling him?”

“Not at all,” answered Keefe, promptly. “If he had, I do not know of it, but I think I can affirm that he had not. For, when Mr. Appleby was anxious, he always showed it. In many ways it was noticeable, if he had a perplexity on his mind. In such a case he was irritable, quick-tempered, and often absent-minded. The day we came down here, Mr. Appleby was genial, affable and in a kindly mood. This, to my mind, quite precludes the idea that he looked for anything untoward.”

“How did he impress you, Mr. Wheeler?” Stone went on. “You had not seen him for some time, I believe.”

“Not for fifteen years,” Dan Wheeler spoke calmly, and with an air of determined reserve. “Our meeting was such as might be expected between two long-time enemies, but Appleby was polite and so was I.”

“He came to ask a favor of you?”

“Rather to drive a bargain. He offered me a full pardon in return for my assistance in his son’s political campaign. You, I am sure, know all this from Mr. Appleby, the son.”

“Yes, I do; I’m asking you if Mr. Appleby, the father, showed in his conversation with you, any apprehension or gave any intimation of a fear of disaster?”

“Mr. Stone,” returned Wheeler, “I have confessed that I killed Mr. Appleby; I hold, therefore, that I need say nothing that will influence my own case.”

“Well, you see, Mr. Wheeler, this case is unusual – perhaps unique, in that three people have confessed to the crime. So far, I am preserving an open mind. Though it is possible you and your wife and daughter acted in collusion, only one of you could have fired the fatal shot; yet you all three claim to have done so. There is no conclusion to be drawn from this but that one is guilty and the other two are shielding that one.”

“Draw any conclusion you wish,” said Wheeler, still imperturbably. “But I’ve no objection to replying to the question you asked me. Sam Appleby said no word to me that hinted at a fear for his personal safety. If he had any such fear, he kept it to himself.”

“He knew of your enmity toward him?”

“Of course. He did me an unforgivable injustice and I never pretended that I did not resent it.”

“And you refused to meet his wishes regarding his son’s campaign?”

“I most certainly did, for the same reasons I opposed his own election many years ago.”

“Yes; all those details I have from Mr. Appleby, junior. Now, Mr. Appleby does not believe that his father was killed by any member of your family, Mr. Wheeler.”

“Can he, then, produce the man whom he does suspect?”

“No; he suspects no one definitely, but he thinks that by investigation, I can find out the real criminal.”

“You may as well save your time and trouble, Mr. Stone. I am the man you seek, I freely confess my crime, and I accept my fate, whatever it be. Can I do more?”

“Yes; if you are telling the truth, go on, and relate details. What weapon did you use?”

“My own revolver.”

“Where is it?”

“I threw it out of the window.”

“Which window?”

“The – the bay window, in my den.”

“In this room?”

“Yes.”

“That window there?” Stone pointed to the big bay.

“Yes.”

“You were sitting there at the time of the shot, were you not, Miss Wheeler?” Stone turned to Maida, who, white-faced and trembling, listened to her father’s statements.

“I was sitting there before the shot,” the girl returned, speaking in quiet, steady tones, though a red spot burned in either cheek. “And then, when Mr. Appleby threatened my father, I shot him myself. My father is untruthful for my sake. In his love for me he is trying to take my crime on himself. Oh, believe me, Mr. Stone! Others can testify that I said, long ago, that I could willingly kill Mr. Appleby. He has made my dear father’s life a living grave! He has changed a brilliant, capable man of affairs to a sad and broken-hearted recluse. A man who had everything to live for, everything to interest and occupy his mind, was condemned to a solitary imprisonment, save for the company of his family! My father’s career would have been notable, celebrated; but that Samuel Appleby put an end to fifteen years ago, for no reason but petty spite and mean revenge! I had never seen the man, save as a small child, and when I learned he was at last coming here, my primitive passions were stirred, my sense of justice awoke and my whole soul was absorbed in a wild impulse to rid the world of such a demon in human form! I told my parents I was capable of killing him; they reproved me, so I said no more. But I brooded over the project, and made ready, and then – when Mr. Appleby threatened my father, talked to him brutally, scathingly, fairly turning the iron in his soul – I could stand it no longer, and I shot him down as I would have killed a venomous serpent! I do not regret the act – though I do fear the consequences.”

Maida almost collapsed, but pulled herself together, to add:

“That is the truth. You must disregard and disbelieve my father’s noble efforts to save me by trying to pretend the crime was his own.”

Stone looked at her pityingly. McGuire stared fixedly; the boy’s eyes round with amazement at this outburst of self-condemnation.

Then Stone said, almost casually: “You, too, Mrs. Wheeler, confess to this crime, I believe.”

“I am the real criminal,” Sara Wheeler asserted, speaking very quietly but with a steady gaze into the eyes of the listening detective. “You can readily understand that my husband and daughter are trying to shield me, when I tell you that only I had opportunity. I had possessed myself of Mr. Wheeler’s pistol and as I ran downstairs – well knowing the conversation that was going on, I shot through the doors as I passed and running on, threw the weapon far out into the shrubbery. It can doubtless be found. I must beg of you, Mr. Stone, that you thoroughly investigate these three stories, and I assure you you will find mine the true one, and the assertions of my husband and daughter merely loving but futile attempts to save me from the consequences of my act.”

Fleming Stone smiled, a queer, tender little smile.

“It is certainly a new experience for me,” he said, “when a whole family insist on being considered criminals. But I will reserve decision until I can look into matters a little more fully. Now, who can give me any information on the matter, outside of the identity of the criminal?”

Jeffrey Allen volunteered the story of the fire, and Keefe told of the strange bugle call that had been heard.

“You heard it, Mr. Keefe?” asked Stone, after listening to the account.

“No; I was with Mr. Appleby on a trip to Boston. I tell it as I heard the tale from the household here.”

Whereupon the Wheeler family corroborated Keefe’s story, and Fleming Stone listened attentively to the various repetitions.

“You find that bugler, and you’ve got your murderer,” Curtis Keefe said, bluntly. “You agree, don’t you, Mr. Stone, that it was no phantom who blew audible notes on a bugle?”

“I most certainly agree to that. I’ve heard many legends, in foreign countries, of ghostly drummers, buglers and bagpipers, but they are merely legends – I’ve never found anyone who really heard the sounds. And, moreover, those things aren’t even legends in America. Any bugling done in this country is done by human lungs. Now, this bugler interests me. I think, with you, Mr. Keefe, that to know his identity would help us – whether he proves to be the criminal or not.”

“He’s the criminal,” Keefe declared, again. “Forgive me, Mr. Stone, if my certainty seems to you presumptuous or forward, but I’m so thoroughly convinced of the innocence of the Wheeler family, that perhaps I am overenthusiastic in my theory.”

“A theory doesn’t depend on enthusiasm,” returned Stone, “but on evidence and proof. Now, how can we set about finding this mysterious bugler – whether phantom or human?”

“I thought that’s what you’re here to do,” Sam Appleby said, looking helplessly at Fleming Stone.

“We are,” piped up Terence McGuire, as Stone made no reply. “That’s our business, and, consequentially, it shall be done.”

The boy assumed an air of importance that was saved from being objectionable by his good-humored face and frank, serious eyes. “I’ll just start in and get busy now,” he went on, and rising, he bobbed a funny little bow that included all present, and left the room.

It was mid-afternoon, and as they looked out on the wide lawn they saw McGuire strolling slowly, hands in pockets and seemingly more absorbed in the birds and flowers than in his vaunted “business.”

“Perhaps McGuire needs a little explanation,” Stone smiled. “He is my right-hand man, and a great help in detail work. But he has a not altogether unearned reputation for untruthfulness. Indeed, his nickname is Fibsy, because of a congenital habit of telling fibs. I advise you of this, because I prefer you should not place implicit confidence in his statements.”

“But, Mr. Stone,” cried Maida, greatly interested, “how can he be of any help to you if you can’t depend on what he says?”

“Oh, he doesn’t lie to me,” Stone assured her; “nor does he tell whoppers at any time. Only, it’s his habit to shade the truth when it seems to him advisable. I do not defend this habit; in fact, I have persuaded him to stop it, to a degree. But you know how hard it is to reform entirely.”

“It won’t affect his usefulness, since he doesn’t lie to his employer,” Appleby said, “and, too, it’s none of our business. I’ve engaged Mr. Stone to solve the mystery of my father’s death, and I’m prepared to give him full powers. He may conduct his investigations on any plan he chooses. My only stipulation is that he shall find a criminal outside the Wheeler family.”