The Mark of Cain

“If you have such ingenious views, you may succeed. But what about the button?”

“Well, you see,” and Fibsy’s face grew blank, “you can’t tell much by a suspender button, ’cause they’re all alike. If it had been a coat button, now, or – ”

The judge looked at the boy thoughtfully. “Terence,” he said, “I promised not to laugh at you, and I won’t. But I think it only fair to tell you that I can’t take much interest in your ‘clues.’ But your conversation has made me realize that you’re a bright boy. Knowing that, and as you were the office boy of my very good friend, I’d like to do something for you. Have you obtained a place yet?”

“No, sir, I haven’t.”

“Well, then, I’d like to help you to get a good position. And would that wipe out your disappointment that I can’t make use of your clues?”

“Yes, sir! I’d like to have a recommendation from you, sir.”

“All right. Go away now and return this afternoon at three. I may have found a place for you by that time.”

Fibsy went away, thinking deeply. “Ain’t I the limit?” he inquired of himself. “Why in the dickens did I tell him those lies? It’s funny, but sometimes I ’spect to tell a straight yarn and sumpin inside o’ me jest ups an’ lies! But it didn’t make any difference this time fer he wouldn’t a’ cared if I’d told him it was a shoe button, or if I’d told him the truth about the hunk o’ dirt. An’ anyway, a detective has to be awful sicretive, an’ it don’t do to alwus tell the truth.”

At three the untruthful one returned for his news.

“Well, Terence,” was the greeting, “I’ve a good position for you in Philadelphia.”

Fibsy’s face fell. “I’d ruther be in New York.”

“Is that so. Well, you’re not obliged to take this place, but I should advise you to do so. It’s office boy to a first-class lawyer, and you should be able to pick up a lot of odds and ends of information that might be useful to you in your detective career.”

“Sounds good to me,” and Fibsy’s face cleared. “What’s the weekly number o’ bones?”

“You will receive ten dollars a week, if you make good.”

Fibsy almost fell over. “Gee! Mr. Hoyt, I ain’t worth it!”

“That’s for your new employer to judge. I’ve been telephoning him, and he wants a boy who is wide-awake and not stupid. You ought to fill that bill.”

“Yep, I can do that. Honest, Judge, I’ll do me best, and I’m orfly obliged, sir.”

“Not at all. Can you go this afternoon?”

“Today! Why, I s’pose I can. But it’s terrible sudden.”

“I know it. But Mr. Stetson wants to go away tomorrow, for a few days, and he wants to break you in before he leaves.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. But, oh, say, now, – I jest can’t go off so swift, – honest I can’t Judge, sir.”

“No? And why not?”

“Well, you see, I gotter get some clo’es. Yes, sir, some clo’es. And my sister, she alwus goes with me to buy ’em, an’ she can’t get a day off till tomorrow. An’ then, if the clo’es has to be let out, or let in, you know, why it’d take a little longer. Yes sir, I see now, I couldn’t get off ’fore the first of the week.”

“I’m not sure Mr. Stetson will hold the place for you as long as that.”

“Pshaw, now, ain’t that jest my luck! Can’t you pussuade him, Judge, – pussuade him, as it were?”

“I’ll try,” and smiling involuntarily, Judge Hoyt dismissed his caller.

“At it again!” said Fibsy, to himself, as he passed along the corridor. “Gee! what whoppers I did tell about them clo’es!”

CHAPTER XIV

TWO SUITORS

“Oh, of course, that settles it” Pinckney was saying to Avice, as he watched for her answering gleam of satisfaction at his words. She had been telling him about the Hemingway letter, and had said he might use it in his newspaper story.

Avice was disappointed that the police had not been entirely convinced by the note she found, and while they searched for the unknown Hemingway, they kept strict surveillance over Kane Landon and a wary eye on Stryker.

But Pinckney agreed with her, positively, that Hemingway was the murderer, and that it was in accordance with the dead man’s wishes that he should not be hunted down, consequently the matter ought to be dropped.

However, the young reporter had reached such a pitch of infatuation for the beautiful girl, that he would have agreed to any theory she might have advanced. He lived, nowadays, only to get interviews with her, and to sanction her plans and carry out her orders. They had evolved theories and discarded them time and again, and now, Avice declared, this was the absolute solution.

“Of course, Uncle Rowland looked forward to this fate,” she said, her face saddened at the thought, and, “Of course,” Pinckney echoed.

“Seems queer, though,” put in Landon, who was present, “that the note just cropped up. Where was it, Avice?”

“In a pigeon-hole of uncle’s desk, stuffed in between a lot of old papers, – bills and things.”

“A fine search the police put up, not to find it sooner!”

“But it doesn’t matter, Kane, since I came across it,” and Avice smiled at him. “You must admit that the mystery is solved, even if we don’t know who Hemingway is, and are asked not to find out.”

“Oh, it’s as good a solution as any,” Landon said, indifferently; “but I don’t take much stock in it, and Pinck doesn’t either. Do you, old chap?”

“I see no reason to doubt that the probabilities point to the man mentioned in the note,” Pinckney returned, a little stiffly. He was horribly jealous of Landon, and though not sure that Avice cared for him, he feared that she did. Kane Landon was a handsome fellow, and had, too, as Pinckney noted with concern, that devil-may-care air that is so taking with women. It was Landon’s fad never to discuss anything seriously, and he scoffed at all theories and all facts put forth by Pinckney in his amateur detective work.

Moreover, Pinckney, who was not at all thick-skinned, couldn’t help observing how Avice’s interest in him flagged when Landon was present. Alone with the girl, the reporter could entertain and amuse her, but let Landon appear, and her attention was all for him.

So Pinckney reluctantly went away, knowing he would only be made miserable if he remained longer.

“What makes you act so about that note?” demanded Avice of Landon, after Pinckney left.

“Act how?”

“As if it were of no account. Why, Kane, if uncle wrote that, he must have known how he would meet his death.”

“Yes – , if he wrote it?”

“What do you mean?” Avice looked startled. “Can you have any doubt that he wrote it? Why, I know his typewriter letters as well as I know his handwriting.”

“Do you?” and Landon smiled quizzically. “Avice, you are very beautiful this morning.”

“Is that so unusual as to require comment?” The smile she flashed at him was charming.

“It isn’t unusual, but it does require comment. Oh, Avice, I wish I could kidnap you and carry you off, away from all this horrid mess of police and detectives and suspicion.”