 CHAPTER XIII. A VICKY VAN BY CAROLINE WELLS. THIS LIBERVOX RECORDING IS IN THE PUBLIC DOMAIN. XIII. FLEMING STONE. Vicky had said hush, but it was an unnecessary precaution for I was too stunned to articulate. I peered at her in the darkness and then, unable to control my desire for certainty, I flashed my little pocket light on her for an instant. Don't!" she whispered, putting her hands up before her face. But I had seen. It was really Vicky Van. Her smooth black hair looped over her ears, her scarlet mouth, and soft pink cheeks, flushed with excitement of the moment, and her long dark lashes, which suddenly fell beneath the blinding flare of the light, all were those of the runaway girl. Don't talk, she said hastily. Let me do the talking. I want you to help me. Will you? Of course I will, and all sense of law and justice fled before the wave of pity and solicitude for the trembling suppliant who thus appealed to me. Her voice was indistinct and a little hoarse, as if she was laboring under great mental and nerve strain, and she was so alone, so unprotected, that I couldn't help promising any assistance in my power. There wasn't any parcel in the big vase, I said in a low voice as she seemed to hesitate about going on with her explanation. No, here it is, and she handed me a little box. Just put it away safely for the present. And now, this is what I want to ask of you. Don't let them engage that Mr. Stone to hunt me down, will you? Why, how can I help it? Oh, can't you? And she sounded so disappointed. I hoped you could persuade Mrs. Skyler not to have him. But Mrs. Skyler doesn't want him either, I exclaimed. It's those two sisters who insist on getting him, and I never could turn their wills dry as I might. Why doesn't Mrs. Skyler want him? Oh, I'm not sure that she really objects to the plan, but I mean she didn't seem as anxious as the other two. You see, little girl, the widow of Randolph Skyler isn't so bitter against you as the two sisters are. That's good of her, and Vicki's voice was wistful. But you know I must remain in hiding. I thought you were going to leave New York. I am, and at once. But if that Mr. Stone gets on my trail he'll find me a surest fate, and so I risked this interview to try to persuade you to use your influence against his coming. And I'll do that, I returned heartily, but I feel that I ought to tell you that I doubt my power to dissuade the Skyler sisters from their determination. And, too, how did you know they thought of getting him? Oh, I see all the papers you know, and in one of them a reporter gave a personal interview with the Skyler people, and they hinted at getting that man. Vicki sighed wearily as if her last hope was gone. I was full of questions I wanted to ask her, but it seemed intrusive and unkind to quiz her. And yet one thing I felt I must say. I must ask her what she knew of the actual crime. Tell me, I blurted out, who did kill Randolph Skyler? Again I felt her tremble and her voice quivered as she whispered back. It must have been some enemy of his who got in at the window or something like that. My heart fell. This was the sort of thing she would say if she were herself the guilty one. I had hoped for a more sincere even if despairing answer. But I must send you away. She breathed in my ear. We were standing just inside the room and Vicki held her hand on a chair back for support. There was the faintest light from the street enough for us to distinguish one another's forms but no more. Vicki wore a street gown of some sort and a long cloak. On her head was a small hat and a black net veil. This was tied so tightly that it interfered a little with her speech I thought, though when I had looked at her face by my flashlight the veil had not been of sufficient thickness to conceal her features at all. I have often wondered why women wear those uncomfortable things. She kept pulling it away from her lips as she talked. I want my address book. She went on hurriedly. I've looked all over for it and it's gone. Did the detective take it? I think he did, I replied, remembering Lowney's search. Can't you get it back for me? Look here, child, what do you think I am, a magician? No, but I thought you could manage somehow to get it. Her voice showed the adorable petulance that distinguished Vicki Vann and then you could send it to me. Where, I cried eagerly, where shall I address you? I can't tell you that, but you can bring it here and leave it in the Chinese jar and I will get it. How do you come in and go out of this house without being seen, I demanded, by the area door? Perhaps so, and she spoke lightly, and perhaps by a window and maybe by means of an aeroplane and down through the skylight. Not that, I said. The skylight is fastened on the inside and has been ever since, ever since that night. Well then I don't come that way. But if you'll get that book and put it in the big vase, I'll come and get it. When will it be there? You're crazy to think I can get it. I return slowly, but if I can, I will. Give me a few days. A week if you like. Shall we say a week from tonight? Next Monday? Yes, if I can get it at all, I can have it by then. How shall I let you know? You needn't let me know, for I know you will get it. Steal it for Mr. Lowney if you can't get it otherwise. But if Fleming Stone is on your trail, will you come for the book? I must, she spoke gravely. I must have the book. It means everything to me. I must have it. Then you shall, if I can manage it. It is your book. It has proved of no value as evidence. You may as well have it. Yes, I may as well have it. And now, Mr. Calhoun, will you go please, or do you intend to turn me over to the police? Vicky, I cried. How can you say such a thing? Of course I'll go if you bid me. But let me wait a minute. You know you wrote to Ruth Schuyler. Ruth? Is that one of the old sisters? No, Ruth is the widow. Oh yes, I wrote to her. I didn't know her first name. I wrote because I thought it was she who was making the desperate search for me, and I hoped I could influence her to stop it. That's all. I have no interest in Mandoff Schuyler's widow, except as she affects my future, but can you do anything by working in the other direction? I mean, can you dissuade Flemingstone from coming by asking him not to? You can bribe him, perhaps. I have money. Oh, I doubt if I could do anything like that. But I'll try. I'll try every way I can, and if I succeed, how shall I let you know? Oh, I'll know. If he takes up the matter, it will probably get into the papers, and if I see nothing of it, I'll conclude you succeeded. But I—I want to see you again, Vicky. Oh, no, you don't? Why, you don't know this minute but what I stabbed that man and—you didn't, Vicky. Tell me you didn't. I can't tell you that. I can't tell you anything. I am the most miserable girl on God's earth, and I heard tears in Vicky's voice and a sob choked her utterance. Now go, she said after a moment. I can't stand any more. Please go and do what you can for me without getting yourself into trouble. Go and don't look back to see how I make my exit, will you? Indeed I won't do that. Your confidences are safe with me, Vicky, and I will do all in my power to help you in any way I can. Then go now, she said, and a gentle pressure of her hand on my arm urged me toward the door. I went without another word, and neither while in the street nor after gaining my own house did I look back for another glimpse of Vicky Van. And yet, try as I would, maneuver as I might, I couldn't prevent the arrival of Fleming Stone. The Skyder sisters were determined to have the great detective, and though Mrs. Skyder wasn't so anxious, yet she raised not the slightest objection, and after some persuasion Stone agreed to take the case. I was present at his first call to discuss details and was immensely interested in my first sight of the man. Tall, well-formed, and of a gravely courteous manner, he impressed me as the most magnetically attractive man I had ever seen. His iron gray hair and deep-set dark eyes gave him a dignity that I had never before associated with my notions of a detective. The Skyder sisters were frankly delighted with him. I know you'll run down the murderer of my brother, Miss Rhoda exalted, while Miss Sarah began to babble voluble of what she called clues and evidence. Fleming Stone listened politely, now and then asking a direct question and sometimes turning to use Skyder for further information. As I watched him closely it occurred to me that he really paid little attention to what the women said, he was more engaged in scanning their faces and noting their attitudes. Perhaps I imagined it, but I thought he was sizing up their characters and their sympathies and intended looking up his clues and evidence by himself. The first thing to do, he declared at last, is to find Miss Van Allen. This was what I had feared and remembering my promise to Vicky, I said. I think that will be impossible, Mr. Stone. She wrote she was leaving New York forever. But a householder like that can't go away forever, Stone said. She must look after her goods and chattels and she must pay her rent. No, she owns the house. Must pay the taxes then, must sell it or rent it or do something with it. It would seem so, I agreed, and yet if one is wanted for murder one would sacrifice household goods and the house itself in order to escape being caught. True, and Stone nodded his head. But still I fancy she would return for something. Few women could leave their home like that and not have some valuables or some secret papers or something for which they must return. I venture to say Miss Van Allen has already been back to her house more than once on secret errands. Was the man a clairvoyant? How could he know that Vicky had done this very thing? But I realized that once that he knew it not from cognizance of facts, but from his prescience of what would necessarily follow in such a case. She has her keys, of course, he asked. The police have charge of the keys. I said a little lamely. I know, said Stone impatiently, but there are doubtless more keys than the ones they have. I should say that Miss Van Allen took at least the key of one door with her, however hurried her flight. It may be so, I conceded, but granting she has been back and forth on the errands you suggest it is not likely she will keep it up. No, it is not. And especially if she learns I am on the case. How could she know that? Ruth Skyder asked. I'm sure Miss Van Allen is a most clever and ingenious young woman, Stone replied, and I feel sure she knows all that is going on. She gets information from the papers and, too, she has that dependable maid Julie. That woman, probably disguised, can do much in the way of getting information as to how matters are progressing. You see, I followed the case all the way along, and the peculiarities and unique conditions of it are what induced me to take it up. Shall we offer a reward, Mr. Stone, for the discovery of the hiding place of Miss Van Allen? asked Rhoda eagerly. I want to use every possible means of finding her. Not yet, Miss Skyder. Let us try other plans first. But I must enjoy an utter secrecy about my connection with the matter. Not the fact that I am at work on it, but the developments or details of my work. It is a most unusual, a most peculiar case, and I must work unimpeded by outside advice or interference. I may say I've never known of a case which presented such extraordinary features and features which will either greatly simplify or greatly impede my progress. Just what do you mean by that last remark, Mr. Stone? asked Ruth Skyder, who had been listening intently. I mean that the absolutely mysterious disappearance of the young woman will either be a easy and simple solution, or else it will prove an insoluble mystery. There will be no halfway work about it. If I can't learn the truth in a short time, I fear I never can. How strange, said I, do you often feel thus about the beginning of a case? Very rarely, almost never. And never have I felt it so strongly as in this instance. To trace that girl is not a matter of long and patient search. It's rather a question of a bit of luck or a slight slip on her part, or, well, of some coincidence or chance discovery that will clear things at one flash. Then you're depending on luck, exclaimed Rota in a disappointed tone. Oh, not that. And Stone smiled. At least I'm not depending entirely on that. If luck comes my way so much the better. And now please let me see the notes Ms. Van Allen has written. None was available, however, except the one to Ruth Schuyler. For the one to Randolph Schuyler was in Lowney's possession, and the one I had had from Vicky and which was even then in my pocket I had no intention of showing. It was not necessary, however, for Flemingstone said one was enough to gather all that he could learn from her chirography. He studied it attentively but only for a moment. Then he said, a characteristic penmanship, but to me it only shows forcefulness, ingenuity, and good nature. However, I'm not an expert, I only get a general impression, and the traits I've mentioned aren't doubtedly to be found in the lady's nature. Are they not? And he turned to me as to one who knew. They are, I replied, so far as I know, Ms. Van Allen. But my acquaintance with her is limited, and I can only agree superficially. Stone eyed me closely and I began to feel a little uncomfortable under his gaze. Clearly I'd have to tell the truth or incur his suspicion. Nor did I wish to prevaricate. I felt friendly toward poor little Vicky, and yet I had no mind to run counter to the interest of Ruth Schuyler. The two sisters I didn't worry about, and indeed they could look out for themselves. But Ruth Schuyler was in a position to demand justice, and if that justice accused Vicky Van, I must be honest and fair to both in my testimony. Fleming Stone proceeded to question the women, more definitely and concisely now, and by virtue of his marvelous efficiency he so shaped his inquiries that he learned details with accuracy and rapidity. It would never have occurred to me to ask the questions that he put, but as he went on I saw their pertinence and value. With Ruth's permission he called several of the servants and asked them a few things. Nothing of moment transpired to my mind, but Stone was interested in a full account of where each servant was and what he was doing on the night of the murder. Each gave a straightforward and satisfactory account, and I realized that Stone was only getting a sense of the household atmosphere and its relations to Mr. Schuyler himself. Tibbetts, the middle age maid of Ruth Schuyler, told of the shock to her mistress when the news was brought. Mrs. Schuyler had retired, said Tibbetts. At about ten o'clock Mr. Schuyler was out and I was not expected home until late. I attended her and after she was in bed I went to bed myself. I'm told you do not live here, commented Stone though in a disinterested way and at the same time making notes of some other matters in his notebook. I have a room around on Third Avenue, replied Tibbetts. I like a little home of my own and when Mrs. Schuyler permits me I go around there to sleep and sometimes I go in the daylight hours, but on that night I happen to be staying here. Tibbetts is rather a privileged character, interposed Ruth. She has been with me for many years and as she likes a little place of her own I adopted the plan of which she has told you. But that night you were here, said Stone to the maid. Yes, sir. I slept in Mrs. Schuyler's dressing-room as I always do when I'm here. Then when Jepsen told me the awful news I awoke Mrs. Schuyler and told her. Yes, said Stone. I read all about that in the inquest report. CHAPTER XIV Now, said Fleming Stone after he had learned all he desired from the Schuyler household, now if you please I would like to go over to the Van Allen house. You have the keys, Mr. Calhoun. I have a latch-key to the street door, I replied. The rooms are not locked. I don't know why exactly, but I hated to have him go through Vicky Van's house. Of course it must have been because she had begged me not to let Stone get into the case at all. But I hadn't been able to prevent that, the two Schuyler sisters being determined to have him. And I had no desire to impede justice or stand in the way of law and order, but somehow or other I felt the invasion of Vicky's home would bring about trouble for the girl and my mind was filled with vague foreboding. We will go with you, announced Miss Rhoda. I have wanted to see that house from the first. You'll go, Ruth. Oh, no! And Ruth Schuyler shrank at the idea. I have no wish to see the place where my husband was killed. How could you think of it? If I could do any good by going... No, Mrs. Schuyler, said Fleming Stone. You could do no good and I quite understand why you would rather not go. The Mrs. Schuyler and Mr. Calhoun will accompany me and we will start at once. Can't I go? asked Winnie, who had come in recently. I'm just crazy to see that house. You don't mind my going, do you, Ruth? No indeed, child. I'm perfectly willing. Mr. Stone raised no objection, so Winnie went with us. It was nearly five o'clock, full daylight, though the dusk was just beginning to fall. We went round to Vicky Vance and I opened the door for the party to enter. The house had begun to show disuse. There was dust on the shining surfaces of the furniture and on the polished floors. The clocks had all stopped and the musty chill of a closed house was in the atmosphere. Ah! cried Winnie. What a creepy feeling! And this house is too pretty to be so neglected. Why, it's a darling house. Look at that heavenly color scheme! Winnie had darted into the living-room with its rose and gray appointments and we all followed her. Don't touch anything, Miss Calhoun, cautioned Stone, and Win contented herself with gazing about her hands clasped behind her. The Schuyler sisters sniffed and though they said little, they conveyed the idea that to their minds the Bijoux residents savored of reprehensible frivolity. Fleming Stone lived up to his reputation as a detective and scrutinized everything with quick comprehensive glances. We went through the long living-room and into the dining-room whose pale green and silver again enchanted Winnie. The walls are exquisite. Stone agreed, looking closely at the panels of silk brocade framed with a silver tracery. If walls have ears they must burn at your praise, I said in an effort to speak lightly, for Stone's face had a nominous look as if he were learning grave truth. "'Walls not only have ears, they have tongues,' he returned. "'These walls have already told me much of Miss Van Allen's character.' "'Oh, how?' cried Winnie. "'Do tell us how you deduce and all that.' I looked hastily at Stone thinking he might be annoyed by Winnie's volatile speech. But he said kindly, "'To the train die, Miss Calhoun, much is apparent that escapes the casual observer. But you can understand that the taste displayed in the wall decoration shows a refined and cultured nature. A woman of the adventurous type would prefer more garish display. Of course I am generalizing, but there is much to bear me out. Then I see by certain tiny marks and cracks that these walls have lately been done over and that they were also redecorated another time not long before. This proves that Miss Van Allen has money enough to gratify her whims and she chooses to spend it in satisfying her aesthetic preferences. Further, the walls have been carefully cared for, showing an interested and capable housekeeperly instinct and traits of extreme orderliness and tidiness. Cleverness even, for here you see is a place where a bit of the plaster had been defaced by an awk or scratch and it has been delicately painted over with a little pale green paint which matches exactly. It is not the work of a professional decorator, so reason tells me that probably Miss Van Allen herself remedied the defect. Good gracious, exclaimed Winnie, I can see all that myself now you tell me, but I never should have thought of it, tell me more. Then the pictures which are so well chosen and placed that they seem part of the walls are, as you notice, all figure pieces. There are no landscapes. This, of course, means that Miss Van Allen is not distinctly a nature-lover but prepares humanity and society. This argues for the joy of living and the appreciation of mental pleasures and occupations. No devotee of nature would have failed to have pictures of flowers or harmonizing landscapes on these walls, so you see, to be edified by the tongues of walls, you must not only listen to them but understand their language. And then Stone began taking in the rest of the dining-room's contents. The table, hastily cleared by the caterers' men, was empty of the china and glass which they had supplied, but still retained the candlesticks and apparence that were Vicky Van's own. These were of plated silver-knot sterling which Fat Stone noted. The lace-trimmed linen, however, was of the finest and most elaborate sort. An unholy waste of money, declared Rhoda Skyler, looking at the marvelous monogram of VVA embroidered on the napkins. But I gazed sadly at the table, only partially dismantled which had been so gaily decked for Vicky's birthday supper. Scanning the sideboard, Stone remarked the absence of the small carving-knife. I told him I too had observed that and that I had made search for it. Did you ask the caterers' people if they took it by mistake? Said the detective. No, I admitted an ashamed that I hadn't thought of it and I promised to do so. As Stone stood, silently contemplating the place where Randolph Skyler had met his death, I stepped out into the hall. I had no conscious reason for doing so but I did, and, chancing to glance toward the stairs, I with difficulty repressed an exclamation. For half way up the staircase I saw Vicky Van. I was sure it was no hallucination. I positively saw her. She was leaning over the banister, listening to what Stone was saying. Suddenly, even as I looked, she ran up stairs and disappeared. Was she safe? Could she escape? Perhaps by a back staircase, or could she manage to elude us and slip away somehow? Then I was conscious-stricken. Was I conniving at the escape of a guilty person? Did I want to do this? I didn't know. Something told me I must tell Stone of her presence and yet something else made it impossible for me to do so. I turned back to the dining-room and Miss Sara was saying, That's the spot then, that's where Randolph was killed by that awful woman. Mr. Stone, you must get her. An eye for an eye, a life for a life. She must pay the penalty of her guilt. Winnie was listening and tears stood in her eyes. Like Ruth Skyler, from whom she doubtless took a cue, Win wasn't so ready to condemn Vicky Van unheard as the two sisters were. She looked steadily at Fleming Stone as if expecting him to produce Vicky then and there, and I quivered with the thought of what would happen if he knew that even at that moment Vicky was under the same roof with ourselves. But Stone completed a survey of the dining-room and as a matter of course started next up the stairs. I pushed ahead a little in my eagerness to proceed him, but a vague desire to protect Vicky urged me on. I stood in the upper hall as the rest came up, and I imagined that Stone gave me a curious glance as he noted my evident embarrassment. But Winnie dashed into the music-room and the Skyler sisters quickly followed. Trust a woman to feel and show curiosity about her neighbor's home. Again Stone examined the walls, but the immaculate white and gold sides of the music-room said nothing intelligible to me and if they spoke to him he did not divulge the message. The women exclaimed at the beautiful room and as Stone's examination here was short we all filed back to Vicky's bedroom. I heard no sound of her and I breathed more freely as we did not find her in bedroom or in the Boudoir beyond. She had then succeeded in getting away and trusted to me not to betray her presence there. The Boudoir or dressing-room, all pink satin and white enameled wicker called forth new exclamations from Winnie and even rode a Skyler expressed a grudging admiration. It is beautiful, she conceded. I wish Ruth had come after all. She loves this sort of furniture. Don't you remember, Sarah, she wanted Randolph to do up her dressing-room in wicker. Yes, but he didn't like it, he said it was gim crackery, and the circation, while not of Ruth's room, is much handsomer. Of course it is. Ruth has a charming suite. Oh, do look at the dresses. Fleming Stone had flung open a wardrobe door and the costumes disclosed, though not numerous, were of beautiful coloring and design. Winnie, unable to resist the temptation, fingered them lovingly and called my attention to certain wonderful confections. What did she wear the night of the crime? Stone asked, and I told him. Having win for a sister I am fairly good at describing women's clothes, and I drew a vivid word-picture of Vicki's gold-fringed gown. Heavenly exclaimed Winnie, although she had had me describe the gown to her on the average of twice a day for a week, I wish I could see it. Some day, Chet, I'm going to have one like it. Fringe? said Stone curiously. Do women wear fringe nowadays? Oh, yes, I responded. But it was a long fringe of guilt beads that really formed an overdress to the tulle skirt. Stay, I have a piece of it, and I took out my pocketbook. See, here it is. I found it caught in those gilded leaves at the lower corner of the mirror frame, that long dressing mirror. They all looked at the mirror which hung flat against the wall, its foley-aided Florentine frame full of irregular protuberances. Of course, said Winnie, nodding her head, I know just how she stood in front of it, whirling around to see her gown from all sides, like this. When whirled herself around before the glass and succeeded in catching a bit of her own full skirt on the frame. Too little goose, I cried as the fabric tore. We don't need a demonstration at the expense of your frock. Fleming Stone was studying the strand of gold fringe. It was composed of tiny beads of varying shapes and had already begun to rabble into shreds. I'll keep this, he said, and willy-nilly I lost my little souvenir of Vicky Van. But, of course, if he considered it evidence I had to give it up, and the fact of doing so partly salved my conscience of its guilty feeling at concealing the fact of Vicky's presence in her own house just then. And too, I said to myself, Mr. Stone is out to find her. Surely a detective of his caliber can accomplish that without help of a humble layman. So I kept my own counsel and further search of the next story and later of the basement rooms gave no hint of Vicky's presence or departure. Indeed, I began to wonder if I had really seen her. Could she have been so clearly in my mind that I visualized her in a moment of clairvoyance? My reason rebelled at this, for I knew I saw her as well as I knew I was alive. She had on the same little hat in which I had last seen her. She had on no cloak and her tailor-maid's street-dress was of a dark cloth. I couldn't be sure how she got away for the basement door we found bolted on the inside, but she must have warily evaded and eluded us and slipped here and there as we pursued our course through the house and then have gone out by the front door when we were, say, on the upper floors. Returning to Vicky's boudoir where her little writing desk was, Fleming Stone began to run over the letters and papers therein. It was locked, but he picked the flimsy fastening and calmly took up the task with his usual quick-moving efficient manner. I stayed with him and the three women wandered back over the house again. He ran through letters with glancing quickness, ripped over sheeps of bills and examined pens, ink, and paper. There's so much that's characteristic about a desk, he said, as he observed the pen-wiper, stamps, pintre, and especially the pencils. Indeed I feel now that I know Miss Van Allen as well if not better than you do yourself, Mr. Calhoun. In that case, then, you can't believe her guilty. I flashed back for the very atmosphere of the dear little room made me more than ever Vicky's friend. But you see, and he spoke a bit sadly, what I know of her is the real woman. I can't be deceived by her wiles and coca-trees. I see only the actual traces of her actual self. I knew what he meant, and there was some truth in it. For Vicky was a mystery, and I was not by any means sure that she didn't hoodwink us when she chose to. Much as I liked and admired the girl, I was forced to believe she was not altogether disingenuous. And she was clever enough to hoodwink anybody. But if Stone's deductions were to be depended on, they were doubtless true evidence. Is she guilty? I sighed. I can't say that yet, but I found nothing that absolutely precludes her guilt. On the contrary, I found things which if she is guilty will go far toward proving it. This sounded a bit enigmatic, but Stone was so serious that I grasped his general meaning and let it go at that. I mean, he said, divining my thoughts, that things may or may not be evidence according to the guilt or innocence of the suspect. If you find a little boy in the pantry beside an empty jam-pot, you suspect him of stealing jam. Now, if lots of other circumstances prove that the child did take the jam, the empty pot is evidence. But if circumstances develop that convince you the child did not have any jam whatever that day, then the jam-pot is no evidence at all. And you have found empty jam-pots, I asked. I have. But so far I'm not sure that they are condemnatory evidence. Though in justice to my own work I must add that they have every appearance of being so. You already like Vicky Van, then. I said quickly, move to do so by a certain note of regret in his voice. No man could help liking a woman who possesses her traits. She has delightful taste and tastes. She is most charitable, her account so sums wisely expended on worthy charities. And letters from friends prove her a truly loyal and lovable character. Such a girl couldn't kill a man, I broke out. Don't say that. There is no one incapable of crime. But such a nature would require very strong provocation and desperate conditions. These, granted, it is by no means impossible. Now I am through for today, but if you please I will keep the key of the house. As the case is now in my hand you will not object. No, I said a little reluctantly. For, suppose Vicky should give me another commission or ask me to perform another errand in the house. You have a transparent face, Mr. Calhoun, and Fleming Stone smiled quizzically. Why do you want to keep the key? My aunt is most desirous of seeing this house. I deliberately prevaricated and I thought. But I didn't deceive the astute detective. No, that isn't it, he said quietly. I'm not sure, but I think you are in touch with Miss Van Allen. And if I am, I flared up. Very well. He returned. It is, as you imply, none of my business. But I want to know your attitude and if it is antagonistic to my work I am sorry, but I will conduct my course accordingly. Mr. Stone, I confessed. I am not antagonistic, but I do know a little about Miss Van Allen's movements that I haven't told. I cannot see that it would assist you in any way to know it. That's enough. And Fleming Stone spoke heartily. Your assurance of that is sufficient. Now are we working together? I hesitated. Then I suddenly thought of Ruth Schuyler. I owed her a business fealty and somehow I liked to feel that I also owed her personal allegiance, and both these demanded my efforts to avenge the death of her husband irrespective of where the blow might fall. So I said honestly. We are, Mr. Stone. I will help you if I can, and if at any time I think my withheld information will help you I will make it known. Is that satisfactory? Entirely so, and the handshake that Stone gave me was like a signed and sealed bond to which I tacitly but nonetheless truthfully subscribed. End of Chapter 14 Chapter 15 of Vicky Van by Carolyn Muelles This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. FIFTEEN FIBSY Next morning as I started for my office I found myself combating a strong impulse to call in at Ruth Schuyler's. I had no errand there and I knew that if she required my services she would summon me. It was no longer incumbent on me to try to unravel the murder mystery. Fleming Stone had that matter in charge and his mastermind needed no assistance from me. And yet I wanted to stop at the Fifth Avenue House if only for a moment to reassure myself of Ruth's well-being. Though above me in social rank the little widow seemed to me a lonely and pathetic woman and I knew she had begun to depend on me for advice and sympathy. Of course she could turn to Fleming Stone but in a way he was advisor of the Schuyler sisters and I knew Ruth hesitated to intrude on his time. I was still uncertain whether to call or not and as I walked along the few feet between my own house and the avenue I crossed the street as I reached Vicki Van's house and naturally looked at it as I passed. And after I had passed the flight of brownstone steps and was going along by the iron fence I turned to look at the area door. This was my performance every morning and always without thought of seeing anything of importance. But this time the area door stood halfway open and looking out was a boy, a red-headed chap with a freckled face and bright, wise eyes. I turned quickly and went into the area gate. Who are you? I demanded. And what are you doing here? I am Fibsie. He said as if that settled it. Fibsie who? I asked, but I dropped my indignant tone for the lad seemed to be composedly sure of his rights there. Ah, just Fibsie. That's my name because if you want to know because I'm a natural-born liar and I fib for a living. He was impudent without being offensive. His wide smile was good natured and the twinkle in his eye a friendly one. I got your number, he said, after a comprehensive survey of my person. You're C. Calhoun, ain't you? I sure am. I agreed meeting his taste for the vernacular. And now for your real name. Terence McGuire, he smiled, and with a quick gesture he snatched off his cap. Come on in, if you like. I'm F. Stone's right-hand man. What? I cried in amazement. Yep, that's what. I'm, well, I like to call myself his caddy. I follow him round and hold his clues for him till he wants one, then I hand it out, you see? Not entirely. But I gather you're in Mr. Stone's employ. You bet I am, and I'm on me job twenty-four hours a day. And what is your job just now? Well, since eight a.m. I've been holding up this door, waiting for your honour to pass by. And I got you, didn't I? Yes, I am here. I stepped inside and the boy closed the door. We went into the front basement room where there was a lighted gas stove. I camp here, count at the heats. There's no use for getting up the steam for the few casual callers that drops in at present. Now, Mr. Calhoun, I don't want to be stuffing or nothing, but Mr. Stone said I might ask you some few things if I liked and you can answer or not as you like. This ain't no official investigation, but I suppose you're as interested as anybody in finding this here Victoria Van Allen. I'm interested in finding the murderer of Mr. Skyler, I replied. And maybe they ain't one and the same, that so. He spoke thoughtfully and scanned my face with a quizzical glance. But of course Mr. Stone'll find out. Now, Mr. Calhoun, if you don't mind, will you give me a line on that maid person, that Julia? Julie, she is called. All right, Julie goes. Is she a young thing? No, just this side of middle age, probably thirty-five or so. Good looker. Why, about average. Brown hair, brownish eyes. Really, I never noticed her closely enough to think about her appearance. She is, I'm sure, a good servant and devoted to Ms. Van Allen. But don't you know anything special? Anything that would pick her out from a lot of other good servants? In appearance, you mean? Yes. I can't think of anything, let me see. She wears glasses. What sort? I don't know, just ordinary glasses, I guess. Spectacles or nose writers? I'm not sure. Spectacles, I think. And she has a great many gold-filled teeth. Prant ones? Yes, that is, they're very noticeable when she speaks to you. Well, that's something. Is she quick and spry-like or pokey? I smiled at the boy's eagerness. She's rather alert, I said, but of course quiet and respectful. I never looked at her with any personal interest so I can only give you my general impressions. You see, it's this way. And the boy looked very serious. Wherever Ms. Van Allen is, that Julie's there, too. And when Ms. Van Allen wants errands done, of course she sends Julie. And, of course, said Julie is disguised. I dope out all this has to be so. For Ms. Van Allen has mailed letters and, oh well, of course she could mail letters in lots of ways, but someone tells me that she depends on Ms. Julie as an errand girl. So I want to find out the look of the Julie person and see if I can't track her down and so get at Ms. Van Allen. Vicky Van, I believe, her friends call her. They do, said I, looking sternly at the boy. And I'll say right here I'm one of her friends, and I won't stand for any impertinence or any remarks of any sort about that, lady. If she is suspected of this crime, let the law take its course. But until there is some direct evidence, don't you dare to connect her name with it. I'm only obeying Mr. Stone's orders. And take it from me, Mr. Calhoun. I ain't so fresh as to make remarks about a lady. I'm a prevaricator of the truth, but only when it's absolutely necessary. And on the other hand, I'm a born protector of women. Why, I'd be only too tickled to find a gentleman's suspect. Or at least to clear Ms. Van Allen from all spission. Why do you feel such a kindly interest in the lady? This house for one reason. You see, I've been all over it, at Mr. Stone's orders, and I realize what a nice lady she is. I don't have to see her to understand her taste and accomplishments. Why, just the books on her center tables and the records for her phonograph spell her out for me in words of one syllable. And though I'm hunting for her, it isn't with a solid hunch that she's the knife-sticker. Not by no means. But find her, I've got her, because F. Stone says for me too. I looked at the boy more curiously. He was a strange admixture of Street Boy and Sleuth. His quick, darting eyes were never still, but warily alert to catch the meaning of any sound or motion on my part. I felt as if he read me through and would not have been surprised to have him tell me he knew of my recent communications with Vicky. But I only said, you are then, Mr. Stone's right-hand man. I put it that way, yes, but really I'm his apprentice, and I'm learning his trade. I study his methods, and I add some gumption of my own, and if I can help him, I'm glad and happy. And anyway, I'm learning. And this talk about your lying, is that straight goods? If it is, how can you believe what I tell you? he asked whimsically. But I used to be a fierce liar. Then getting in with F. Stone made me see it's wrong till I, usually that is. So I don't now, least ways not much. Only when it's just the only thing to do to save game. How does Mr. Stone know when you're telling the truth then? Good land, I don't lie to him. I wouldn't, and if I did it wouldn't be any use. He'd see through me quicker and scat. But honest, I wouldn't. You see, he's my idol. Yes, sir, my idol. That's what that man is. Well, Mr. Calhoun, as you've told me all you can pry loose from your stock of information, you and me may as well make our aduces. How do you know I haven't revealed all I know of the case? Oh, I read from your mobile countenance that you're keeping something back, but it don't matter. F. Stone'll nail it when he gets good and ready. What I wanted from you was mostly the speaking likeness of the Julie Dame. And I guess I got it. Oh, say, one other thing. Who among Miss Van Allen's friends is an artist? Miss Gale is one, Miss Ariadne Gale. Thank you, sir. And will you give me her address? I did so, and then I went away, thinking Fleming Stone a queer sort of detective to have for assistance such an illiterate uncultured boy as fibsy. The name was enough to condemn him. But as I thought the little chap over, I realized that his talk had been clear-headed and to the point, besides showing sagacity and perspicacity. It was growing late, but after this interview I felt I must see Ruth for a few minutes, so called at the Skyler House. She greeted me cordially and seemed glad to see me. Winnie was still acting as secretary for her, but the rush of notes of condolence was over, and as Ruth was not, of course, giving her accepting social invitations, there was not so much work for win as at first. But the two had become fast friends, and Winnie told me how they sat together chatting often for pleasant half hours at a time. I told Ruth about the strange boy at Vicky Van's house. Yes, she said. I've heard about him. Mr. Stone picked him up somewhere, and he uses him as a sort of outside scout. He has all confidence in him, though I believe the little chap rejoices in the name of Fibber. Fibsy, I corrected. He is certainly a bright youth, and he plans to hunt down Miss Van Allen by means of her maid, Julie. Are they together? We only suppose so. It seems probable that Miss Van Allen would want the help if not the protection of her servant. Julie is a most capable woman and devoted to her mistress. I've heard so. I have a kind, thoughtful woman too, and I should miss her terribly were I without her. Oh, but your tidbits is a servant and nothing more. This Julie was a real friend to Miss Van Allen and looked after her in every way. Housekeeper, maid, nurse, and general bodyguard. Yes, Miss Van Allen must have needed such a person since as I am told she lived alone. My sisters-in-law are quite in love with the Van Allen house. Both they and Winnie have been singing its praises this morning. It seems your Vicky Van is a lady of most refined tastes. She certainly is. I can't help thinking if you and she had known each other in favorable circumstances, you would have been friends. It may be. I have never felt sure that she is the guilty one, but I have changed my mind about not wanting her to be found. I do want that she should be. Mr. Skyler's sisters have shown me that to hesitate at or neglect any means of hunting her out would be wrong. And so I am glad we have Mr. Stone and I hope he will succeed in his search. What changed your mind especially? I realize that it would be disloyalty to my husband's memory to let his possible slayer go free. The girl must be found, and then if she can be freed of suspicion very well, but the case must be investigated fully. I dare say you are right. Mr. Skyler was a man of importance and influence and aside from that every deed of blood calls for revenge. I honor you for deciding as you have. It is justice that moves me more than my personal inclination, Ruth went on. I will not deny Mr. Calhoun that in some ways my husband's death has freed me from certain restrictions that hampered and galled me. I shouldn't mention this to you, but I know the sisters have told you that I have in many ways gone counter to Mr. Skyler's wishes since I have been my own mistress. It is true. He and I disagreed greatly on matters of the household and matters of my personal comfort and convenience. Now that I can do so, I am arranging my life differently. It is natural that I should do this, but the Skyler ladies think that I have begun indecently soon. I say this not by way of apology, but because I want you to understand. Ruth looked very sweet and wistful as she seemed to make a bid for my sympathy. I was impressed anew by the soft pallor of her face and the sweet purity of her gray eyes. I contrasted her with Vicky Van. One, the embodiment of life and gaiety. The other, a gentle dove-like personality which, however, hinted sometimes at hidden fires. I believed that Ruth Skyler had been so repressed so dominated by her brute of a husband that her nature had never expanded to its own possibilities. And, like a blinding flash of lightning, the knowledge came to me that I loved her. It was no uncertain conviction. The facts sprang full-armed to my brain and my heart swelled with the bliss of it. I scarcely dared look at her. I couldn't tell her yet. I had no reason to think she cared for me other than as the nearest acquaintance, yet then and there I vowed to myself that she should care. I thought of Vicky Van. Poor little Vicky. She had interested me, did interest me, but in only a friendly way. Indeed, my interest in her was prompted by sympathy for her luckless position in the trust she had reposed in me. I would hold her trust sacred. I would never play false to Vicky Van. But henceforth and forever my heart and soul belonged to my liege lady, my angel-faced Ruth. What is the matter, Mr. Calhoun? I heard her saying and I looked up to see her smiling almost gaily at me. Her thoughts seemed to be a thousand miles away. Oh, not so far as that! I protested. Somehow I felt buoyantly happy. I had no wish to tell her of my love. At present I was quite content to worship her in secret and I exalted in a sort of clairvoyant knowledge that I should yet win her. I smiled into her dear eyes as I continued. They were really round the corner in Vicky Van's house. To my delight she pouted a little. Let's talk of something else, she said. I have no doubt Miss Van Allen is charming in her home a perfect gem, but I own up. I'm not anxious to discuss her all the time and with everyone. You shall be exempt from it with me, I promised. Henceforth her name is Taboo between us and you shall choose our subjects yourself. Then let's talk about me. Now you know, Mr. Calhoun, I never see Mr. Bradbury, so you must be my legal advisor in all my quandaries. First, and this is a serious matter, I don't want to continue to live with the Skyler ladies. We are diametrically opposed on all matters of opinion and disagree on many matters of fact. Ruth smiled and I marveled afresh at the way her face lighted up when she indulged in that little smile of hers. Nor, she went on, do they want to live with me. So it ought to be an easy matter to please us all. As to the house and furnishings they are all mine, but if the sisters prefer to live here and let me go elsewhere, I am willing to give them the house and its contents. I know you don't care for this type of residence, I said. Indeed, Miss Skyler said yesterday as we looked over Vicky Van's house that it was just the sort of thing you liked. Oh, I can't think I would like her house. I supposed it was a plain little affair, harmonious and pretty when he says, but she didn't give me the impression it was elaborate. No, it isn't, and it wouldn't be as grand as your home ought to be. But mention of the girl is not allowed, I believe. She smiled again and resumed. Well, I want you to sound the Skyler sisters and find out their wishes. When I speak to them they only say for me to wait until after the mystery is solved and all this horrid publicity and notoriety at an end. But I want to go away from them now. I want Mr. Stone to do his work and I hope he will find that girl and all that, but I can't stand it to live in this atmosphere of detectives and reporters and policemen any longer than I must. Would it do for me to go to some quiet hotel for a while? I could take tibets and just be quietly by myself while the Skylers continue to live in this house. I thought it over. I understood perfectly how she hated to be questioned continually as to her life with her late husband, for I was beginning to realize that that life had been a continuous tragedy. Nothing much definite, but many sidelights and stray hints had shown me how he had treated her and how patiently she had borne it. And now he was gone, and I for one didn't blame her that she wanted to get away from the scenes of her slavery to him, for it had been that. He had enforced his ideas and opinions upon her until she had been allowed to do nothing and to have nothing as she wished. And now she desired only peace and quietness somewhere, anywhere, away from the two who represented Randolph Skyler's tyranny and carping criticism without his right to obtrude them on her. I will speak to them, I said, and I am sure we can arrange some mode of life for you which will give you rest and freedom of judgment. Oh, if only you can, as she held out a friendly hand. End of Chapter 15 Chapter 16 of Vicky Van by Carolyn Wells This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. 16. A Futile Chase It was Sunday afternoon and we were in Conclave in the Skyler Library. Fleming Stone was summing up his results of the past few days and though it was evident he had done all that mortal man could do, yet he had no hint or clue as to where Vicky Van might be. And he held that nothing else was of consequence compared to this knowledge. She must be found, and whether that could be done quickly by search or by chance or whether it would take a long time of waiting he could not say. He felt sure that she must disclose herself sooner or later but if not, and if their search continued unavailing then he held out no hope for success. It's a unique case, he said in my experience. All depends on finding that woman. If she is innocent herself she knows who did it. And if she is the guilty one she is clever enough to remain hidden. It may be she is miles away out of the country perhaps. She has had ample time to make arrangements to go abroad or to any distant place. Her guilt seems to me probable because she has literally abandoned her house and her belongings. An innocent woman would scarcely leave all those modern and valuable furnishings unless for some very strong reason, but as to finding her, a needle in a haystack presents an easy problem by contrast. Doubtless she is hiding in the house of some friend, suggested Ruth thoughtfully. It seems to me she must have been taken in and cared for by someone who loved her that night she disappeared. I think so too, agreed Stone. But I've been to see all her friends that I can find out about. I've called on a score of them finding their addresses in her address book that Mr. Lowney gave me. Of course they may have been deceiving me, but I feel safe in asserting that she is not under the protection of anyone I interviewed. She returned to her house last Monday night the police believed for the purpose of getting her mail. This shows a daring almost unbelievable. That mail must have been of desperate importance to her. She has not been to the house since they feel sure, and since I have been on the case she could not have entered for have kept it under strict surveillance. I think she will never return to it. Presumably she got the letter she was so anxious for. Her mail that has arrived the last few days I have not opened, but the envelopes show mostly Trasman's cards or are indubitably social correspondence. There seem to be no letters from lawyers or financial firms. However, if nothing develops I shall open the letters. This case being unprecedented necessitates unusual proceedings. I'm disappointed in you, Mr. Stone, said Rhoda Schuyler testily. I didn't suppose you were superhuman, but I did think with your reputation and all you would be able to find that woman. I have heard say that nobody could absolutely vanish in New York City and not be traced. You don't regret my so far failure a bit more than I do, Miss Schuyler, but I feel no shame or embarrassment over it. Nor am I ready to admit myself beaten. I have a theory or rather a conviction that there is one and only one explanation of this strange affair. I'm not quite ready to expound this, but in a day or two I shall find if it is the true solution, and if so I shall soon find Miss Van Allen. I knew you would, and Sarah Schuyler nodded her head in satisfaction. I told Rhoda to give you more time and you would not disappoint us. All right, Mr. Stone, use all the time you need, but no Schuyler must remain unevented. I want to see that woman killed, yes, killed, for her murder of my brother. Sarah Schuyler looked like a figure of justice herself as with flashing eyes she declared her wrath, and it was her right. Her brother's blood called out for vengeance, but the more gentle-sold Ruth shuddered and shrank from this stern arraignment. Oh, Sarah, she murmured, not killed. Don't condemn a woman to that. Why not, Ruth? If a woman can kill, a woman should be killed. But she won't be, she added bitterly. No jury ever convicts a woman no matter how clearly her guilt is proven. Just then Fibsie appeared. He was a strange little figure and showed a shy awkwardness at the grandeur of his surroundings. He bobbed a funny little curtsy to Ruth whom he already adored, and with an embarrassed nod included the rest of us in a general greeting. Then, to Fleming Stone, he said, in an eager triumphant tone, I got him. Got what? asked Ruth, smiling at him. Got pictures of Miss Van Allen and Julie too. What? cried Ruth, interested at once. Let me see them. Fibsie glanced at her and then at Stone and handed a parcel to the latter. He's my boss, the boy said, as if by way of apology for slighting her request. Fleming Stone opened the parcel and showed two sketches. Miss Gale made them, he explained. I sent Fibsie over there to induce her to give us at least a hint of Miss Van Allen's personal appearance. The boy could weadle it from her when I couldn't, see? He handed the pictures to Miss Rhoda for he too respected authority, but we all gathered round to look. They were the mirror sketches, a wash of watercolor, but they showed merit. As the only one present who knew Vicki Van, I was asked of the truth of their portraiture. Fairly good, I said. Yes, more than that. This of Vicki shows the coloring of her face and hair and the general effect of her costume more than her actual physiognomy, but it is certainly a close enough likeness to make her recognizable if you find her. And this was true. Ariadne had caught the sight-long glance of Vicki Van's dark-lashed eyes and the curve of her scarlet lips. The coloring was perfect, just Vicki's vivid tints and the dark hair looped over her ears was as she always wore it. Ariadne had drawn her in the gown she had worn that fatal evening and the woman eagerly scrutinized the gorgeous costume. No wonder those long strands of fringe caught in that scraggly mirror frame, exclaimed Winnie who never missed a point. Right, said Stone, if she whirled around as you did, Miss Calhoun, it's a wonder she didn't spoil her whole gown. The pose and the figure were not exactly Vicki's. Ariadne wasn't much on catching a likeness or a physical effect, but the color and atmosphere were fine and I told this to Stone, who agreed that it was a decided help in the search. Julie's portrait was the same. Not a real likeness of the woman but an impressionist transcript of her salient points. The grey gown and white apron, the thick rimmed glasses, the parted lips, showing slightly protruding teeth, the plainly parted brown hair, all were the real Julie. And yet, except for these accessories, I'm not sure I could have recognized the subject of the sketch. However, as I told Stone, it certainly was a helpful indication of the sort of woman he was to look for, and even in disguise the physical characteristics must show. The detective was positive that wherever Vicki Van and Julie were, or whatever they were doing, they were in all probability disguised and thoroughly so, or they must have been discovered ere this. To my amusement, Fibse and Ruth were holding a tight, a tight conversation. The kind-hearted woman had doubtless felt sorry for the boy's shyness and had drawn him into a chat to put him at ease. She had succeeded too, for he was animated and had lost his self-consciousness under the charm of her smile. And I'll bet your birthday comes in the spring, he was saying as I caught the tenor of their talk. It does, said Ruth, looking surprised. How did you guess? Because you're just like a little spring flower, a white crocus or a bit of Arbitus. And then, noting my attention, the boy was covered with confusion and blushed to the tips of his ears. He rose from where he sat and shuffled awkwardly around the great room, devoting exaggerated attention to some books in the glass cases and twirling his fingers in acute embarrassment. You scared him away, chided Ruth under her breath as our glances met. He and I were getting positively chummy. Why was he talking of your birthday? I asked. I don't know, I'm sure. He said I was born in the spring because I'm like a flower. Really, that child will grow up a poet if he doesn't look out. You are like a flower. I murmured back. And I'm glad your birthday's in spring. I mean to celebrate it. And then I thought of poor Vicky Van's birthday, so tragically ended and I quickly changed the subject. Armed with the pictures, Fleming Stone and his assistant spent the next day on a still hunt. And in the evening Stone came over to see me. A little quiet confab, he said as we secluded ourselves in my sitting-room and closed the door. I've been to a score of places and invariably they recognize Miss Van Allen and her maid, but I'll say they've not seen her since the tragedy. I went to shops, offices, the bank and places where she would be likely to need to go. Also her friends' houses. But nothing doing. The shops have heard from her in the way of paid bills, checks and such matters, but I learned absolutely nothing that throws any light on her whereabouts. Now Mr. Calhoun, the very thorness of her disappearance, the very inviolable secrecy of her hiding place proves to me that she isn't tidying. Now, Mr. Stone, I said, smiling, you talk like a real story-book detective. Cryptic utterances of that sort are impressive to the layman, you know. Cha! And he looked annoyed. If you knew anything about detective work, you'd know that the most seemingly impossible conditions are often the easiest to explain. Well then, explain, I'll be glad to hear. I will. And in return, Mr. Calhoun, I'm going to ask you if you don't think that all things considered, you ought to tell me what you are keeping back. You won't mind, will you, if I say that I have deduced from evidence, he smiled, that your interests are largely coincident with those of Mrs. Skyler? You're on. I said shortly, but not annoyed at his perspicacity. Well then, I assure you that Mrs. Skyler is most desirous of locating Miss Van Allen. She is not so revengeful or vituperative as the sisters of her husband, but she feels it is due to her husband's memory to find his slayer if possible. Now, suppose you tell me what you know, and I promise to keep it an inviolate confidence except so far as it actually helps the progress of the wheels of justice. I do want to do what is best for Mrs. Skyler's interests, I said after I had thought a moment. But I must confess, I have a certain sympathy and pity for Victoria Van Allen. I cannot believe her guilty. Then tell me, frankly, the truth. If you are right and she is not the murderer, the truth can't harm her. And if she is the guilty person, you are compounding a felony in the eyes of the law to withhold your information. Stone spoke a little sternly and I realized he was right. If Vicky were untraceably hidden, all I could tell wouldn't hurt her. And, too, I couldn't see that it would anyway. Moreover, as Stone said, I was making myself amenable to the law by a refusal to tell all I knew, and since I was so aware of my own devotion to Ruth Skyler, I felt I had no right to do anything that she would disapprove. And I knew that a touch of feminine peak in her disposition would resent any consideration of Vicky over her own claims. Therefore, I told Fleming Stone all I knew of Victoria Van Allen, both before, during and after the occasion of her birthday party. He listened with his deep eyes fixed on my face. Most extraordinary, he said at last after I had finished, I never heard of such daring. To enter her own house when it was watched by the police. Only the post patrol then, I reminded him, she could easily manage between his rounds. Yes, yes, I know, but you've put the whole thing in different focus. Tell me more. There was no more to tell, but I went over my story again, amplifying and remembering further details until we had spent the whole evening. He egged me on by questions, and his burning eager eyes seemed to drink in my words as if they were so much priceless wisdom. And I told him too that I had promised to put Vicky's address book in the Chinese jar for her that very evening. We'll do it, he exclaimed promptly. She meant to meet you there, I'm sure, but I'm also sure she changed her mind about that when she learned of my advent. However, we'll keep your promise. Acting at his instructions, I went with him over to Vicky Vans. It was about midnight, and as he had the address book with him, he kept possession of it. We went in the house and in the dark felt our way up to the music room. Stone put the book in the jar and motioned for me to hide behind a sofa. He himself took up his vigil behind a window curtain of heavy brocade. He had planned all this before we left my house, and no word was spoken as we took our places. His hope was that Vicky would come into the house late and go straight for her book and quickly out again. He had directed me to wait until she had really abstracted the book from the jar and then, as she was leaving the room, spring after her and stop her. I obeyed orders implicitly, and as Stone had warned me we had a bit of a wait. I grew cramped and tired, and at last I gave up all hope of Vicky's appearance. And then she came. Silently, absolutely without sound, she glided in from the hall. My eyes now accustomed to the semi-gloom of the room could discern her figure as it approached the great vase. Softly she raised the cover, she abstracted the book, and, with noiseless touch, was replacing the cover when she threw back her head as if she sensed our presence. I had made no move nor had I heard a breath of sound from Stone, but Vicky knew someone was present. I knew that by her startled movement. She gave a stifled scream and, pushing the great jar off on the floor, word crashed to pieces she rushed out of the room and downstairs. After her Calhoun, fly, shouted Stone, and as he flung back the heavy curtains the streetlights illuminated the scene. But as we avoided the broken fragments, we bumped together and lost a few seconds in our recovery from the impact. This gave Vicky a start, and we heard the street door slam as we raced down the stairs. Here, too, we lost a second or two, for I stepped back to give Stone space, just as he did the same for me, and when we had reached the foot of the stairs, leaped through the hall, wrenched open the door, and dashed down the steps to the pavement, we saw the flying figure of Vicky Van round the Fifth Avenue corner and turned south. After her we ran as fast as mortal man can run, I verily believe, and when we reached the avenue there was no one in sight. Stone stood stock still looking down the street. The avenue was lighted as usual, and we could see a block and more in both directions, but no sign of Vicky. Nor was there a pedestrian abroad or a motor. The avenue was absolutely uninhabited, as far as our eyes could reach. Where'd she go? I panted. Into some house or maybe hiding in an area. We must search them all but very verily. She's a witch, a wonder woman, but all the same the earth didn't open up and swallow her. We searched every area way on the block. One of us would go in and explore while the others stood guard. The third house was the Skyder residence, but Stone also searched thoroughly in its basement entrance. All dark and locked up, he reported as he came out from there, and of course she wouldn't seek sanctuary there, but I have wondered if she isn't concealed in one of these nearby houses as she has had such ready access to her own home. But it was impossible. Every basement entrance was locked and bolted for the night and all the windows were dark. She's given us the slip, said Stone in Deep Chagrin. But perhaps she crossed the street. Maybe she didn't run down this side very far. Let's go over. We crossed and looked over the stone wall of the park. Surely Vicky Van had not had time to scramble over that wall before we reached the corner. It had been not more than a few seconds after we saw her flying form turn down the avenue and she couldn't have crossed the street and scaled the wall in that time. Where was she? What had become of her? Ring up the house as an inquire, I suggested. You're justified in doing that? No use, he responded. If she was expected they won't give her away and if she isn't there they'd be pretty angry at our intrusion. I'll admit Calhoun, I've never been so mystified in my life. Nor I, I emphatically agreed. End of chapter 16 Chapter 17 of Vicky Van by Carolyn Wells This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. 17 The Gold Fringed Gown After that night Fleming Stone became more desperately in earnest in his search for Vicky. It seemed as if the sight of her, the realization that she was a real woman and not a myth, had wetted his eagerness to discover her hiding place and bring her to book. He established himself in her house and both he and Fibsi practically lived there, going out for their meals or picnicking in the basement room. This room became his headquarters and a plainclothes man was on duty whenever Stone and Fibsi were both absent. Though I don't think she'll ever come back again, Stone declared gloomily. She was desperately anxious for that address book and so she got it through my stupidity. I might have known she'd make a dash for the street door. I should have had that exit guarded. But I've seen her and I'll get her yet. At any rate she hasn't left the country or hadn't last night whatever she may do today. It was the day after Vicky had given us the slip. It was mid-afternoon and I had gone to see Stone on my return from my office. I was sadly neglecting my own business nowadays, but Mr. Bradbury looked after it and he sanctioned my devotion to the Skyler cause. Randolph Skyler was an important citizen, he said, and his murderer must be apprehended if possible. Do all you can, Calhoun, for humanity's sake and the laws. Take all the time you want to. I'll see to your important business. So though I went downtown every morning I came back at noon or soon after and plunged afresh into the work of finding Vicky Vann. There was little I could do but Stone consulted and questioned me continually as to Vicky's habits or pursuits and I told him frankly all I knew. Also I managed to make business matters loom up so importantly as to necessitate frequent calls on Ruth Skyler and I spent most of my afternoon hours in the Fifth Avenue House. And Ruth was most kind to me. I couldn't say she showed affection or even a special interest but she turned to me as a confidant and we had many long pleasant conversations when the subject of the mystery was not touched upon. Though she never said a word against Randolph Skyler I couldn't help learning that aside from the horror of it his death was to her a blessed relief. He had not been a good man nor had he been a good husband. On the contrary he had blighted Ruth's whole life by thwarting her every innocent desire for gaiety or pleasure. For instance she spoke of her great enjoyment of light opera or farce comedy but as Mr. Skyler didn't care for such entertainment he had never allowed her to go. He had a box at the Grand Opera and Ruth loved to go but she liked lighter music also. This was not told complainingly but transpired in the course of a conversation at which Fibsie chanced to be present. Gee! he said looking at Ruth commiseratingly. Ain't you never heard that Jitney Girl or the Prince of Bioria? Ruth shook her head smiling at the boy's amazement. There was a subtle sympathy between these two that surprised me for Ruth Skyler was vestidious in her choice of friends. But he amused her and he was never really impertinent merely naive and unconventional. Well on the day I speak of Stonadai sat in the basement room awaiting Fibsie's return. He was out after certain information and we hoped much from it. I got a bunch of dope he announced as he suddenly appeared before us. Don't know as it'll pan out much but listen and I'll spill an earful. I had learned that Fibsie or Terrence as we ought to call him was trying to discard his street slang and was succeeding fairly well save in moments of great excitement or importance. And so I hoped from his slangy beginning that he had found some fresh data. I chased up that sure boy first, he related, and he didn't know anything at all. Said Miss Van Allen's a lovely lady but he most never saw her. The Judy damed it all the ordering and pay in as far as he was concerned. Good pay but irregular work. She'd be here a day or two and then likes not go away for a week. Well we knew that before. Then next I tracked to his lair the furnace man. Same story. Here today I'm gone to more as the song says. Course he ain't only a stoker, he's really an odd job man. Ashes, sidewalks and such. Well he didn't help none. Any I mean. But in the shock of red hair seemed to bristle with triumph. I learned one thing. That Julie has been to the sowing woman and the laundress lady and shut him up. Yes sir. That's what she's done. Tell it all. Said Stone briefly. Well I struck the seamstress first. She wouldn't tell a thing and I said calmly. I know Julie paid you to keep your mouth shut but if you don't tell the law'll make you. That scared her and she owned up that Julie was to see her about a week ago and give her fifty dollars not to tell anything at all what some ever about Miss Van Allen. Some girl that Vicky Van. Julie went there herself. I cried. Yep. The real Julie. Gold teeth and all. But I quizzed the needle pusher good and plenty and she don't know much of evidential value. It was always funny when Fibsey interlarded his talk with legal phrases but he was unconscious of any incongruity and went on. You see as I dope it out she's accustomed to sit in Miss Van Allen's boo door a sowing and might have overheard some gossip or something like that and Miss Van Allen was afraid she'd scatter it and so she sent Julie to shut her up. I don't believe the woman knows where Miss Van is now. I must see her. Said Stone. Yes sir. She won't get away. She's a regular citizen and respectable at that. Well then. The Laundress. To her also Julie had likewise went. And to her also Julie had passed a Spondulix. Now I don't understand that so well for Laundresses don't overhear the ladies talking but anyway Julie told her if she wouldn't answer a question to anybody she'd give her half a century to and did. Doubtless the Laundress knew something Miss Van Allen wants kept secret. Doubtless sir. But I don't believe Muse Stone that it would help us any to learn all those women know. If Miss Van Allen thought they could help us find her she would give them more than that for silence or get them out of the city altogether. Where is Miss Van Allen Mr. Stone? Fibsi asked the question casually as one expectant of an answer. She's in the city Fibs living as somebody else. Yep. That's so. Over on the west side say among the artist ladies studio gang. Maybe so. But she has full freedom of action and goes about as she likes. Julie also. They come here whenever they choose though I don't think they'll come while we're here. It's a queer state of things Calhoun. What do you make of it? I don't believe Vicki is disguised. Her personality is too pronounced and so is Julie's. I think some friend is scaring for them. Not Ariadne Gale of that I am sure. But it may be Mrs. Reeves. She is very fond of Vicki and is clever enough to hide the girl all this time. The police have searched her house. I know but Mrs. Reeves and Vicki could connive a plan that would hoodwink the police. I'm pretty certain. I'll look into that. And Stone made a note of it. About that carving knife Fibsi. Did the caterers take it away by mistake? No sir. I vestigated that and they didn't. That knife is an important thing to my mind. The detective went on. Yes sir. Eagerly agreed Fibsi. It may yet cut the Georgian knot. Why, Mr. Stone, the sewing lady knew that knife. She was here to lunching a few days before the moider and she says she always sat at the table in the dining room to eat after Ms. Van Allen got through. And she says that knife was there because they had steak and she used it herself. I described the fork perfectly and she recognized it at aunt. You're a bright boy. I exclaimed an involuntary tribute to this clever bit of work. I'm associated with Mr. Stone, said Fibsi with a quiet twinkle. It was clever, agreed Stone. I'm sure myself that the absence of that small carving knife means something but I can't fit it in yet. We went up to the dining room to look again at the carving fork still in its place on the sideboard. I was always thrilled at a return to this room. Always reminded of the awful tableau I had seen there. The long slender fork lay in its place. Though it had been repeatedly examined and puzzled over, it had been carefully replaced. But I can't see, I offered, why a carving knife should figure in the matter at all when the crime was committed with a little boning knife. That's why the missing carving knife ought to be a clue, said Stone, because its connection with the case is inexplicable. Now where is that knife? Fibsi, where is it? Fleming Stone's frequent appeals to the boy were often in a half-pandering tone, and yet, rather often, Terence returned an opinion or a bit of conjecture that turned Stone's cogitations in a fresh direction. You see, sir, he said this time, that knife is in this house. It's gotta be. That lady left the house in a mighty hurry but all the same she didn't go out a brandish of a carbon knife. Nor did she take it along and drop it in the street or an ash can, for it had been found. So she secreted its summer, and it's still in the house. Unless? Yes, unless she has taken it away since. You know, Mr. Stone, the Van Allen has been in this house more times than you'd think for. Yes, sir, she has. How do you know? Lots of ways. For instance, on Saturday, I noticed a clean, squareish place in the dust on a table in the ladies' bedroom, and it's where a book was. That book disappeared during Friday night. I don't remember seeing the book, I didn't notice it, to know what book it was, but the clean place in the dust couldn't get there no other way. Well, all is, it shows Ms. Vic comes and goes pretty much as she likes, or did till you and me can't out here. Then you think she left the knife here that night and has since returned and taken it away. I don't know. Fibs is scowled in his effort to deduce the truth. Let's look. He darted from the room and up the stairs. Stone rose to follow. That boy is uncanny at times, he said seriously. I'm only too glad to follow his intuitions and not seldom. He's all right. We went upstairs and then on up to the next floor. Fibs was in Vicky Van's dressing room staring about him. He stood in the middle of the floor, his hands and his pockets, wheeling round on one heel. They say she ran upstairs before she flew the coop, he murmured, not looking at us. That Miss Weldon said that? Well, if she did, she naturally came up here for a cloak and bonnet. I'll never believe that level-headed young person went out into the cold world in her clad rags and no covering. Well then, say she left that knife here, locked up good and plenty. Where? Where, I say, would she secret it? He glared round the room as if trying to rest the secret from its inanimate contents. Mr. Stone says that walls have tongues. I believe it, and I know these walls are just yelling the truth at me and yet I'm so sold if I can't make out their lingo. Well, let's make a stab at it. Mr. Stone, I'll lay you that knife is in some drawer or cupboard in this here berry room. Maybe, Fibsie, said Stone cheerfully, where shall we look first? All over. And Fibsie darted to a wardrobe and began feeling among the gowns and wraps hanging there. With a touch as light as a pickpocket, he slid his lightning-like fingers through the folds of silk and tulle and turned back with a disappointed air. Frisk the whole pack. Nothing doing. He grumbled. But don't give up the ship. We didn't. Having something definite to do, we did it thoroughly, and two men and a boy fingered every one of Vicky Van's available belongings in an amazingly short space of time. Now for this chest, said Fibsie, indicating a large low box on rollers that he pulled out from under the couch. It was locked, but Stone picked it open and threw back the cover. At the bottom of it, beneath several other gowns, we found the costume Vicky had worn the night of the murder. My good land! ejaculated Fibsie. The gold-fringed rig! Ain't it classy? Stone lifted out the dress heavy with its weight of gold beads and held it up to view. On the flounces were stains of blood. And from the wrinkled folds fell, with a clatter to the floor, the missing carving-knife. I stooped to pick up the knife. Excuse me, Mr. Calhoun! cried Fibsie, grasping my hand. Don't touch it. Fingerprints, you know. Right, boy. And Stone nodded approvingly. Pick it up, Fibsie. Yes, sir. And taking from his pocket a pair of peculiar-shaped tongs, Terence carefully lifted the knife and laid it on the glass-top dressing-table. Probably all smudged anyway, he muttered squinting closely at the knife. But there sure are some marks on it. Gee, Mr. Stone, there's something doin'! His eyes shone and his skinny little fingers trembled with excitement of the chase. Stone studied the gold-fringed dress. The blood stains on the flounces, though dried and brown, were unmistakable. Wonderful woman, he exclaimed. Now we've got this dress and what of it. She put it here, not caring whether we got it or not. She's gone for good. She'll never be taken. This proves it to my mind. And the knife? I asked, thrilling with interest. There you go again. If Miss Van Allen put that there for us to discover, the marks on it are of no use. Perhaps some she had put there purposely. You see, I'm inclined to grant her any degree of cleverness from what I know of her ability so far. She is a witch. She can hoodwink anybody. Except F Stone, Esquire, amended Fibsie. You perceive, Mr. Calhoun, the far-famed detective is already on to her coves. Stone looked up to smile at the boy's speech, but he returned his gaze to the golden-trimmed gown. Of course, he said, it is improbable that she took this off before she left the house that night. I opined she threw a big cloak round her and rushed out to the house of some friend. Likely she found a taxicab or even commandeered some waiting private car for her flight. You know, we are dealing with no ordinary criminal. Now, if I am right, she brought this gown back here on some of her subsequent trips. As to the knife, I don't know. I see no explanation as yet. Since she stabbed her victim with another knife, why in the world hide this one up here? What say, Fibsie? Way past me. Maybe she was using both knives and the other one turned the trick, and when she got up here she seen she had this one still in her grip, and she slung it in this here chest to hide it. I ain't sure that's the correct answer, but it'll do temporarily, I say. Mr. Stone, I got an awful funny thing to ask you. It won't be the first funny thing you've asked me, Terrence. What is it? Well, it's pretty near-eaten time, and... Ah, Shaw, I just can't dare to say it. Go ahead, old chap, I can't do more than annihilate you. Well, I want to go to the Skyruses to dinner. To dinner? Yes, sir. And not to the kitchen-eats, neither. I want to set up to their grand table with their butlersers and feetmen, and be an honored guest. Can I, Mr. Stone? Say, can I? Fleming Stone looked at the eager, flushed face. He knew, and I did too, that there was something back of this request. But it couldn't be anything of vital importance to our mystery. Oh, I understand, said Stone suddenly. You've taken a desperate fancy to Mrs. Skyr and you want to further the acquaintance. But it isn't often done that way, my boy. Oh, now don't kid me, Mr. Stone. Either let me go or shut down on it, one of the six. But it's most necessary, I do assure you. Maybe she won't have you. Why should those grand ladies allow a boy of your age at their dinner table? Because you ask them, sir? Fipsy Stone was full of a quiet dignity. Very well, I'll ask them, and Stone went away to the telephone. Fipsy stood, looking rapidly at the gold gown, and now and then his eyes turned toward the knife on the dressing table. The table was covered with silver toilet implements, and save for its unfitting suggestion, the knife was unnoticeable among the other trinkets. It's all right, said Stone, returning. Mrs. Skyr sends a cordial invitation for all three of us to dine with her. Much obliged, I'll be there, said Fipsy unsmilingly. End of Chapter 17 Chapter 18 of Vicky Van by Carolyn Wells This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. 18 Fipsy dines out The dinner at Ruth's Scotters was memorable, and yet it was in no way markedly unusual. The service was perfect, as might be expected in that well-ordered household, and the guests were well behaved. Fipsy, thanks to Fleming Stone's thoughtful kindness, was arrayed in the proper dinner garb of a schoolboy, and his immaculate linen and correct jacket seemed to invest him in a mantle of politeness that sat well on his youthful buoyancy and enthusiasm. I glanced round the table. It was a strange combination of people. Fleming Stone was the sort of man who was at ease anywhere, and I too am adaptable by nature. But the Skyr sisters were evidently annoyed at the idea of receiving as an equal the youth whom they regarded as a mere street Arab. Fipsy had become a firm friend of Ruth's, but he couldn't seem to like the other ladies, and he with difficulty refrained from showing this. The Mrs. Skyr were impressive in their heavy and elaborate morning, and to my mind Ruth looked far more appropriately dressed. She wore a black and white striped chiffon with touches of black silk, and the effect with her pale face and fair hair was lovely. A breast knot of valley lilies added to the loveliness, and I allowed my eyes to feast on her fairness. I had thought Ruth was not what would be called a pretty woman, certainly she was not beautiful. But that night her charm appealed to me more strongly than ever, and I concluded that her air of high-bred delicacy and infinite fineness were more to be desired than mere beauty. Fipsy too devoured her with his eyes though discreetly, and when he thought he was not observed. Fleming Stone devoted himself to the sisters. Probably I concluded because he was in their employ and so owed them his attention. Ruth wore her beautiful pearls and referred to the fact half-apologetically, saying that Mr. Skyr had always liked to see them on her, and she felt privileged to continue to use them even in her mourning period. You like only poils. Pearls, don't you, Mrs. Skyr? Fipsy's slip of pronunciation was due to his slight embarrassment at his noble surroundings, but he valiantly corrected himself and ignored it. I like other gems, Ruth replied, but Mr. Skyr preferred pearls and gave me such beauties that I have grown very fond of them. I remember, Ruth, said Sarah reminiscently, how you used to beg Randolph for sapphires and diamonds instead. You even wanted semi-precious stones, turquoises and topaz. Oh, I remember. But Randolph taught you that pearls were the best taste for a young matron and you grudgingly acquiesced. Oh, not grudgingly, Sarah, and Ruth blushed at the reprimand in her sister's voice. Yes, grudgingly, even unwillingly. In fact, all Randolph's decisions you fought until he made you surrender. You know how you wanted gay-colored gowns until he made you see that greys and moaves were better taste. Never mind my pegadillos, said Ruth lightly. Let's talk of something less personal. Let's talk about the weather, suggested Vipsy, who was not conducting himself on the scene and not heard plan. The park is fine now. All full of red and golden autumn leaves. Have you noticed it, Mrs. Skyr? Not especially. And Ruth smiled at him in appreciation of his conversational help. I must walk over there to-morrow. Yes, um, and why don't you go for a long motor, ride up Westchester Way? The scenery's great. How do you know? Have you been there? Not just lately, but I was last fall. Do you remember the big trees just at the turn of the road by- But Ruth was not listening to the child. Stone had said something that claimed her attention. However, Vipsy was unabashed. With no trace of forwardness, but with due belief in his security of position as a guest, he continued to chatter to Ruth and rarely addressed anyone else. He had something up his sleeve, I thought, for I was beginning to have great faith in the lad's cleverness. He sat at Ruth's left hand, stone being in the seat of the honor guest, and as that left me between the two sisters, I was doomed to participate in their chatter. But I was opposite my hostess and could enjoy looking at her in the intervals of conversation. Suddenly, I chanced to look up and I saw Vipsy's comical little face drawn with grimaces as he sang a snatch of a popular song. My heart goes twirly-wirly when I see my pearly girly with her. Now, what is the next line with her? With her ring around a rosy curls, supplemented Ruth, her own face breaking into laughter, as caught by the infection of Vipsy's waggish gaiety, she rounded out the phrase, yes, that's it, said Vipsy eagerly, and her teeth like little shining pearls, oh, she's my queen of all the girls, my little twirly-wirly pearly girly. Ruth and Vipsy finished the silly little song in concert and stone clapped his hands in applause. Rhoda sniffed and Sarah acidly remarked. How can you, Ruth? I wish you'd be a little more dignified. Quickly the light went out of Ruth's eyes. She looked reproved and though she didn't resent it, a patient sadness came into her eyes and I resolved that I would do all I could to get it arranged that she should live apart from the two carping, criticizing sisters. After dinner we had coffee in the library. Again Fleming Stone took it upon himself to entertain the Mrs. Skyler and I drifted toward Ruth. She sat down on a sofa and motioned Vipsy to sit beside her. I drew a chair up to them and thanked a kind fate that let us all leave the table at once dispensing with a more formal terrying of the men. After the coffee there were decurs. I glanced at Vipsy to see if he accepted a tiny glass from the butler's tray. He did, and moreover he examined the contents with the air of a connoisseur. Oh, de vie de dentsic! he remarked holding up his glass and gazing at the gold flecks in it. We all smiled at him. Your favourite cordial terrense? Asked Stone affably. Yes, sir, don't you love it, Mrs. Skyler? Yes, she said, and then. Why, no, I don't love it, child, but one gets accustomed to something of the sort. But don't you like it better than creamed a mint or benediction? He persisted. Ruth laughed outright. How do you know those names, you funny boy? She said. Read him on the big signboards. He returned. They have the biggest billboards in New York for one of these liquours. I forget which one. These are what I like, said Ruth, smiling as the footman passed a small bowl of sugared rose leaves and crisp green candied mint leaves. Take some terrense. They're better for you than the curves. Help yourself. They are good, and Fipsy obeyed her. They taste like going into a florist shop. So they do, agreed Ruth, herself taking a goodly portion. Rubbish, said Rhoda. I think these things are silly. Randolph would never allow them. Now, Rhoda, there's no harm in a few candies. protested Ruth, and then she changed the subject quickly, for she evaded a passage at arms with the sisters whenever possible. The talk, however, soon drifted to the never-forgotten subject of the murder. The sisters mauled over all they had heard or learned during the day, and begged Stone to propound theories or make deductions therefrom. Stone obeyed, as that was what he was employed for. I think Miss Van Allen is masquerading as somebody else, he affirmed. I believe she is in some house not very far from this neighborhood under the care of some friend and accompanied and looked after by her maid, Julie. I believe she is in touch with all that goes on, not only from the newspapers, but by means of some spy system or secret investigation. But the net is drawing round her. I cannot say just how, but I feel sure that we shall yet get her. It was a grievous mischance that I let her escape last night, but I shall have another chance at her, I'm sure. And then you'll arrest her, said Rhoda with a snap of her thin lips. I daresay. Lowney tells me the fingerprints on the little knife with which Mr. Skyler was killed are clear and unmistakable, but we have not yet found out who's they are. And can you? said Ruth anxiously. If we find Miss Van Allen, said Stone, we can at least see if they are hers. Poo! said Fibsey contemptuously. Why didn't you tell me before that you had the claw prints? I can get Miss Van Allen's all right, all right. How? said I, for Fibsey had lapsed into the careless speech that meant business. Over to her house. Why, they're all over. I've only got a photograph, some brushes, and things on her dressing table to get all the prints you want. That's true, agreed Stone, but it won't give us what we want. Nobody doubts that Miss Van Allen held the knife that stabbed Mr. Skyler and to prove it would be a certain satisfaction, but what we want is the woman herself. It was then that I noticed Ruth's maid, Tibbetts, hovering in the hall outside the library door. You may go home, Tibbetts, Ruth said to her kindly. These gentlemen will stay late and I'll look after them myself. Tibbetts went away and Ruth said explanatorily. My maid is a treasure. I'd like to have her live here, but she is devoted to her own little roof-tree and I'll let her off whenever possible. I knew Tibbetts had a home over on Second or Third Avenue, and I thought it kind of Ruth to indulge her in this. But after a change of domicile herself, perhaps Ruth would arrange differently for her maid. And too, as Winnie had often told me of Ruth's cleverness and efficiency in looking after herself and her belongings, I well knew she could get along without a maid whenever necessary. Did you ever trace that picture in Mr. Skyler's watch? Ruth asked a few moments later. Yes, I said. It was just as we supposed. A little Bodoville actress who Mr. Skyler had taken out to supper gave it to him, and he stuck it in his watch case temporarily. Her name is Dotty Faye and she seemed to know little about Mr. Skyler and cared less. Merely the toy of an evening she was to him, and merely a chance that the picture was in his watch the night of his visit to Vicki Vans. We had come to discuss the personal matters of Randolph Skyler thus freely, for we were all at one in our search for the truth, and there were no secrets or evasions among us. Ruth sighed, but I knew her dear face so well now that I realized it was not from personal sorrow, but a general regret that a man of Skyler's ability and power should have been such a weakling morally. I knew she had never loved her husband, but she had been a faithful and dutiful wife, and no word or hint of blame had ever escaped her lips regarding him. She had been a martyr, but I hadn't learned this from her. The sisters, though unconsciously, told me much of the deprivation and narrowness of Ruth's life. Skyler had ruled her with a rod of iron, and she had never rebelled, though at times her patience was nearly worn out. Later in the evening Fibsi asked for some phonograph music, expressing his great delight in hearing a really fine instrument and good records. I doubt if you'll care for our selections, Ruth remarked as she looked over the cabinet of records. They're almost all classical or old-fashioned songs. I like the classical kind, Fibsi said, endeavoring to be agreeable. Please play the gayest you have, though. But there were few gay ones in the collection. Wagner's operas and Beethoven's solemn marches gave forth their noble numbers, and Fibsi sat, politely listening. No rad time, I suppose, he said, after a particularly depressing fugue resounded its last echoes. No. And Ruth glanced at him. Mr. Skyler didn't care for rad time. On the phonograph, she added perhaps remembering Dottie Fay. We stayed late. Several times Stone proposed our departure, but Ruth urged us to remain longer, or began some subjective interest that held us in spite of ourselves. I had never seen her so entertaining. Indeed, I had never before seen her in what might be called a society setting. She was a charming hostess, and the occasion seemed to please her, for there was a pink flush on her cheeks and an added brightness to her gray eyes that convinced me anew of the joy she could take in simple pleasures. She singled out Fibsi for her special attentions, and the boy accepted the honor with a gentle grace that astounded me. When talking to her he lost entirely his slang and uncoothe diction and behaved as to the manner born. He was chameleonic, I could see, and he unconsciously took gutter from his surroundings. And sometimes I caught him gazing at Ruth with a strange expression that mingled amazement and sadness, and I couldn't understand it at all. Again I would find Ruth's eyes fixed on me with a beseeching glance that might mean anything or nothing. As a whole the atmosphere seemed surcharged with a nameless excitement, almost a terror as if something dire were impending. Once or twice I saw Stone and Terence exchange startled glances, but they rarely looked at each other. There was something brewing of that I was sure. But whatever it was it did not affect the Schuyler sisters. They were eager to talk, anxious to hear, but they felt nothing of the undercurrent of mysterious meaning that affected the rest of us. I was glad when the time came to go. It was very late, nearly midnight, and I marveled to see that Ruth showed no sign of weariness. The sisters had been frankly yawning for some time, but Ruth's eyes were unnaturally bright, and her pale cheeks showed a tiny red spot on either side. She shook hands nervously and her voice trembled as she said good night. Fleming Stone and the boy were moved, I could see that, but they made their adieu without reference to future meeting or further work on the mystery. We went away and as we turned the corner I started across the street to go to my home. Come in to the Van Allen house a few minutes Calhoun, said Stone gravely. I have something to tell you. We went in at Vicky Vans. Stone's manner was ominous. He and Fipsy were both silent and grave looking. We went in at the street door into the hall and then to the living room. Stone and I sat down and Fipsy darted out to the dining room, back to the hall and up the stairs flashing on lights as he went. In silence Stone lighted a cigar and offered me one, which I took, feeling a strange notion that the end of the world was about to come. In another moment Fipsy came slowly downstairs, walked into the living room where we were, gave one look at Stone, and then threw himself on a divan buried his face in the cushions and burst into tears. His thin little frame shook with sobs, great, deep, heart-rending, nerve-wracking sobs that made my own heart stand still with fear. What could it all mean? What ailed the boy. Tell me, Stone, I begged. What is it? What has upset him so? He has found Vicky Van, said Fleming Stone, and it has broken his heart. What do you mean? Don't keep me in this suspense. Where is Vicky, upstairs? No, said Stone, not now. Explain, please, I said, beginning to get angry. I will, said Stone. No, cried Fipsy. No, Mr. Stone, let me tell. W-wait a minute. I'll tell. Oh, oh, I knew it all day. B-but I couldn't believe it. I wouldn't believe it. Why, Mr. Calhoun, Vicky Van is, is, why, Mrs. Skyler is Vicky Van.