"You do certainly babble foolishness," flung out Hughes, unable to conceal his annoyance at the boy's forwardness, as he looked upon it.
"Yes, sir," and Fibsy's humble acceptance of Hughes' reproof had no tinge of irony. The boy was not conceited or bumptious, he was Stone's assistant, and took no orders save from his chief, but he never assumed importance on his own merit, nor behaved with insolence or impertinence to anyone. His only desire was to serve Fleming Stone, and an approving nod from the great detective was all the reward Terence Maguire desired.
And then, Fibsy seemed possessed of a new idea of some sort, for with a sudden exclamation and a word of excuse he ran from the room.
"Don't allow yourself to be annoyed by that boy, Mr. Hughes," said Stone; "he is a great help to me in any work. His manners are not intentionally rude, but sometimes he gets absorbed in an investigation, and he forgets what I've tried to teach him of courtesy and consideration for others. He's of humble birth, but I'm endeavoring to make him of gentlemanly behaviour. And I'm succeeding, on the whole, but in emergency the fervor of his soul runs away with the intent of his mind. For he wants to behave as I ask him to, I know that. Therefore, I forgive him much, and I must ask you to be also lenient."
Then, apparently feeling that he had done his duty by Hughes, the detective turned his attention to the room once more.
He scrutinized everything all over again. He left no minutest portion of the mantel, the table, the desk or the window draperies uninspected. A few taps at walls and partitions brought the comment, "No secret entrance, and had there been, you people must have found it 'ere this. It is a satisfaction to find so much of the investigating done already--and thoroughly done."
Hughes bridled with satisfaction, and eagerly watched Stone's further procedure.
Fibsy took his way to the garage, and began a desultory conversation with Campbell, the chauffeur.
"Who's the college perfessor?" he asked, pointing a thumb over his shoulder at a long, lank figure, hovering toward them.
"Don't babble on so! I don't want all his family history. Quit talking, can't you?"
As Campbell had said only a few monosyllables, and as he had the Scotchman's national sense of humor, he merely stared at his interlocutor.