“Important if true, but are you both sure? And why, oh, why does the valuable Rachel choose this time to vanish? Won’t she come back?”
“Who knows? She didn’t take any luggage——”
“Oh, well, she could walk to the railway station. It’s only a fairish tramp. But _why_ did she go?”
“And I don’t know. But I suppose it was because she didn’t want to be questioned about the man who shot.”
“What! You didn’t say she saw him shoot!”
“Yes, I did. Or I meant to. Anyway that’s what Rachel said. The man with the bugle shot through the window and that’s what killed Mr. Appleby.”
“Oh, come now, this is too big a yarn to be true, especially when the yarner lights out at once after telling it!”
“Well, Rachel has her faults, but I never knew her to lie. And if it was the man I saw—why, that proves, at least, there was a man there.”
“Then he must be reckoned with. Now, Cookie, dear, we _must_ find Rachel. We must! Do you hear? You help me and I bet we’ll get her.”
“Of course you haven’t. But think; has she any friends or relatives nearby?”
“Are there any trains about the time she left?”
“I don’t know what time she left, but there’s been no train since nine-thirty, and I doubt she was in time for that.”
“Then she’s likely in the neighborhood. Is there any inn or place she could get a room and board?”
“Oh, land, she hasn’t gone away to stay. She’s scart at something most likely, and she’ll be back by nightfall.”
“She may and she may not. She must be found. Wait, has she a lover?”
“Well, they do say Fulton, the chauffeur, is sweet on her, but I never noticed it much.”
“She ought to know! Me for Fulton. Good-bye, Cookie, for the nonce,” and waving a smiling farewell, Fibsy went off toward the garage.
“Hello, Fult,” Fibsy sang out gaily to the chauffeur, and received a pleasant response, for few could resist the contagious smile of the round, freckled face of the boy.
“Hello, Mr. Fibsy,” the other returned, “how you getting on with your detective work?”
“Fine; but I want a little help from you.”
“Me? I don’t know anything about anything.”
“Well, then tell me what you don’t know. That fire now, here in the garage, the night of the murder, did you ever find out how it started?”
Fulton’s face took on a perplexed look and he said: “No, we didn’t—and it’s a queer thing. It must have been started by some one purposely, for there’s no way it could have come about by accident.”