The Mystery of the Sycamore

“That’s it,” Genevieve nodded assent to his meaning glance. “Because he wants to marry Maida, and if she’ll marry him, he’ll keep quiet about the heirship. Or, rather, in that case, it won’t matter, as the elder Wheelers can live here if it’s the property of their son-in-law. But, if not, then when Mr. Keefe walks in – the Wheeler family must walk out. And where would they go?”

“I can take care of them,” declared Allen. “Maida is my promised wife; if she consents to marry Keefe, it will be under compulsion. For she knew this secret, and she dared not tell her people because it meant poverty and homelessness for them. You know, Mr. Wheeler is incapable of lucrative work, and Mrs. Wheeler, brought up to affluence and comfort, can’t be expected to live in want. But I can take care of them – that is, I could – if they could only live in Boston. My business is there, and we could all live on my earnings if we could live together.”

The boy – for young Allen seemed scarcely more than a boy – was really thinking aloud as he voiced these plans and suggestions. But he shook his head sadly as he realized that Daniel Wheeler couldn’t go to Boston, and that a marriage between Keefe and Maida was the only way to preserve to them their present home.

“Some situation!” remarked Fibsy. “And the secret is no secret really, for if Miss Wheeler doesn’t marry Mr. Keefe, he’ll tell it at once. And if she does, the whole matter doesn’t matter at all! But I think she will, for what else can she do?”

Jeffrey Allen looked angrily at the boy, but Fibsy’s funny little face showed such a serious interest that it was impossible to chide him.

“I think she won’t!” Allen said, “but I’m not sure just yet how I’m going to prevent it.”

“You won’t have to,” said Stone; “Miss Wheeler will prevent it herself – or I miss my guess!” He looked kindly at the young man, but received only a half smile in return.

“If we all do our share in the matter, perhaps we can arrange things,” Genevieve said, speaking very seriously. “I’ve something to say, for I am engaged to Curtis Keefe myself.”

“Does he think you are?” Stone said, rather casually.

Miss Lane had the grace to blush, through her rouge, but she declared: “He doesn’t want to,” and added, “but he ought to. He has made love to me, and he once asked me to marry him. But since then he has said he didn’t mean it. I don’t suppose I’ve enough evidence for a breach of promise suit, but – oh, well,” and she tossed her pretty head, “I’ve not the least doubt that if Miss Wheeler were out of the question – say, safely married to Mr. Allen, I’d have no trouble in whistling my Curtie back.”

“I’ll bet you wouldn’t!” Fibsy looked at her admiringly. “If I were only a few years older – ”

“Hush, Terence,” said Fleming Stone, “don’t talk nonsense.”

Immediately Fibsy’s face became serious and he turned his attention away from the fascinating Genevieve.

“But all this is aside the question of the murderer, Mr. Stone,” said Allen. “How are you progressing with that investigation?”

“Better than I’ve disclosed as yet,” Stone returned, speaking slowly; “recent developments have been helpful, and I hope to be ready soon to give a report.”

“You expect Mr. Appleby down?”

“Yes; to-night or to-morrow. By that time I hope to be ready to make an arrest.”

“Maida!” cried Jeffrey, the word seeming wrung from him against his will.

“Forgive me, if I do not reply,” said Stone, with an earnest glance at the questioner. “But I’d like to talk to Miss Wheeler. Will you go for her, Mr. Allen?”

“I’d – I’d rather not – you see – ”

“Yes, I see,” said Stone, kindly. “You go, Fibs.”

“I’ll go,” offered Genevieve, with the result that she and McGuire flew out of the room at the same time.

“All right, Beauteous One, we’ll both go,” Fibsy said, as they went along the hall side by side. “Where is the lady?”

“Donno; but we’ll find her. I say, Terence, come down on the veranda just a minute, first.”

Leading him to a far corner, where there was no danger of eavesdroppers, Genevieve made another attempt to gain an ally for her own cause.

“I say,” she began, “you have a lot of influence with your Mr. Stone, don’t you?”

“Oh, heaps!” and Fibsy’s sweeping gesture indicated a wide expanse of imagination, at least.

“No fooling; I know you have. Now, you use that influence for me and I’ll do something for you.”

“What’ll you do?”

“I don’t know; nothing particular. But, I mean if, at any time I can help you in any way – I’ve influence, too, with big men in the financial and business world. I haven’t always worked for the Applebys, and wherever I’ve been I’ve made friends that I can count on.”

“Oh, you mean a tip on the stock market or something of that sort?”

“Yes, or a position in a big, worth-while office. You’re not always going to be a detective’s apprentice, are you?”

“You bet I am! Watcha talking about? Me leave F. Stone! Not on your fleeting existence! But, never mind that part of the argument, I’ll remember your offer, and some day, when I have a million dollars to invest, I’ll ask your advice where to lose it. But, now, you tell me what you want.”

“Only for you to hint to Mr. Stone that he’d better advise Miss Wheeler not to marry Mr. Keefe.”

“So’s you can have him.”

“Never mind that. There are other reasons – truly there are.”

“Well, then, my orders are to advise F. Stone to advise M. Wheeler not to wed one C. Keefe.”

“That’s just it. But don’t say it right out to him. Use tact, which I know you have – though nobody’d guess it to look at you – and sort of argue around, so he’ll see it’s wiser for her not to marry him – ”

“Why?”

Miss Lane stamped her foot impatiently. “I’m not saying why. That’s enough for me to know. You’ll get along better not knowing.”

“Does he know she’s the – the – ”

“I don’t wonder you can’t say it! I can’t, either. Yes, he knows she’s – it – but he’s so crazy about her, he doesn’t care. What is there in that girl that gets all the men!”

“It’s her sweetness,” said Fibsy, with a positive nod of his head, as if he were simply stating an axiom. “Yep, Keefe is clean gone daffy over her. I don’t blame him – though, of course my taste runs more to – ”

“Don’t you dare!” cried Genevieve, coquettishly.

“To the rouged type,” Fibsy went on, placidly. “To my mind a complexion dabbed on is far more attractive than nature’s tints.”

Miss Lane burst into laughter and, far from offended, she said:

“You’re a darling boy, and I’ll never forget you – even in my will; now, to come back to our dear old brass tacks. Will you tip a gentle hint to the great Stone?”

“Oh, lord, yes – I’ll tip him a dozen – tactfully, too. Don’t worry as to my discretion. But I don’t mind telling you I might as well tip the Washington monument. You see, F. S. has made up his mind.”

“As to the murderer?”

“Yep.”