"It's a queer case," said Mr. Bradbury to me, when I reached the office that afternoon. "Of course, I know Randolph Schuyler was no saint, but I never supposed he was deep enough in any affair to have a woman kill him. And so near his own home, too! He might have had the decency to choose his lady acquaintances in more remote sections of the city."
"That isn't the queerest part to me," I returned. "What I can't understand is, why that girl stabbed him. She didn't know him—"
"Now, now, Calhoun, she must have known him. She didn't know any Somers, we'll say, but she must have known Schuyler. A murder has to have a motive. She had provided herself with that knife beforehand, you see, and she got him out to the dining-room purposely."
"I can't think it," I said, and I sighed. "I know Vicky Van fairly well, and she wouldn't—"
"You can't say what a woman would or wouldn't do. But it's not our business to look after the criminal part of it, we've got all we can handle, attending to the estate. And here's another thing. I wish you'd do all that's necessary up at the house. I always got along all right with Randolph Schuyler, but I can't stand those sisters of his. His wife I have never met. But those old Schuyler women get on my nerves. So you look after them. You're more of a ladies' man than I am, so you go there and talk pretty when they want legal advice."
"I'm willing," I agreed. "I don't care such a lot for the sisters myself, but Mrs. Schuyler is a young thing, ignorant of her own rights, and those old maids boss her like fury. I'm going to see that she has her own way in some few things, at least. She inherits half the fortune, you know."
"Yes, and the sisters a quarter each. That is, after some minor bequests and charitable donations are settled. Schuyler was a good sort—as men go."
"Then men go pretty badly! He was a brute to his wife; I've been told he ruled her with a rod of iron, and what he didn't bother her about, the old sisters did."
"That's neither here nor there. Don't you try to be a peacemaker in that family. I know those two old ladies, and they'd resent anything in the way of criticism of their treatment of their sister-in-law. And, if Schuyler didn't treat his wife handsomely, she's rid of him now, at any rate."
"You're a cold-blooded thing, Bradbury," I informed him, "and I am going to do all I can for that young widow. She'll have a lot of unpleasant publicity at best, and if I can shield her from part of it, so much the better."
"All right, Calhoun. Do what you like, but don't get in on the detective work. I know your weakness for that sort of thing, and I know if you begin, you'll never let up."
Bradbury was right. I have a fondness for detective work—not the police part of it, but the inquiry into mystery, the deduction from clues and the sifting of evidence. I had no mind to miss the inquest, and I had a burning curiosity to know what had become of Vicky Van. This was not only curiosity, either. I had a high respect and a genuine liking for that little lady, and, as Mrs. Reeves had put it, I was only too willing to give her the benefit of the doubt.
Though I couldn't feel any real doubt that she had killed Schuyler. As Bradbury said, she didn't know a Mr. Somers, but she may have known the millionaire Schuyler. I had never seen anything of a seamy side to Vicky's character; but then, I didn't know her so very well, and the man was dead, and who elsecouldhave killed him?
I went around to the caterer's on my way uptown that afternoon, and asked him as to the reliability of Luigi and the probable truth of his story.
"That man," Fraschini told me, "is as honest as the day. I've had him longer than any of my other waiters, and he has never said or done anything to make me doubt his accuracy. I believe, Mr. Calhoun, that Luigi saw exactly what he said he saw."
"Might he not have been mistaken in the identity of the woman?"
"Not likely. I'll call him, and you can question him."
This was what I wanted, to question the waiter alone, and I welcomed the opportunity.
"I know it was Miss Van Allen," was the quiet response of the Italian to my inquiry. "I cannot be mistaken. I had seen her many times during the evening. I, therefore, recognized the gown she wore, of light yellow gauzy stuff and an over-dress of long gold bead fringes. I saw her stand above the fallen body, looking down at it with a horrified face. I saw stains of blood on her gown—"
"Where?" I interrupted. "What part of her gown?"
Luigi thought a moment. "On the lower flounces, as if her skirts had brushed against the—the victim, when she stooped over him."
"Did she herself observe these stains?"
"Yes; she looked at them, and looked frightened and then she ran to the hall."
"And you saw no other person near?"
"None."
"And heard nobody?"
"I heard only the voices from the parlor. There was much noise of laughter and talk there."
No amount of questioning could change or add to Luigi's story. It was quite evident that he was telling just what he saw, and had no interest in coloring it to make it appear different in any way. He admired Miss Van Allen, he said she was a pleasant lady and not hard to please if her orders were faithfully carried out. He expressed no personal interest in the question of her guilt or innocence, he simply told what he had seen. I didn't altogether like his stolid indifference, it seemed impossible there should be so little humanity in a fellow-being, but I knew he was a good and conscientious waiter, and I concluded he was nothing more.
I went home, and, of course, was met by Aunt Lucy and Winnie with a perfect storm of questions.
"After dinner," I begged. "Let me get a little rest and food, and thenI'll tell you all I know."
But after a few spoonfuls of soup, Winnie declared I was too nervous to eat and I might as well talk.
"Well, I will," I said. "But, look here, you two. To begin with, I want you to understand that I'm involved in this matter in a business way, and I'm also interested in a personal way. And I don't want any silly talk about it's being unfortunate or regrettable that I should be. It's a business case, Aunt Lucy, as far as the settlement of Mr. Schuyler's estate is concerned, and it's a personal affair that I'm acquainted with Miss Van Allen; and I propose to make more or less effort to find some trace of that girl, and to see if there is any possible chance that she may not be the guilty one after all."
"Good for you, Lord Chesterton!" cried Winnie. "I always knew you were the soul of chivalry, and now you're proving it! What are you going to do—to find out things, I mean?"
"I don't know yet, Win. But if you want to help me, you can do a lot."
"Indeed, she won't!" declared Aunt Lucy. "If you have to do these things as a matter of business, I can't object. But I won't have Winnie dragged into it."
"No dragging, Aunt Lu, and nothing very desperate for Winnie to do.But, I'd be jolly glad if both of you would just glance out of thewindow occasionally and see if you see anything going on at the VanAllen house, that's all."
"Oh, I'll do that!" Winnie cried. "Nobody can see me, I'll keep behind our curtains, and I can see that house perfectly well."
"I don't mean all the time, child. But I do feel sure that Vicky Van will come back there, and if you glance out now and then, you might see her go in or out."
"But it's dark," said Aunt Lucy, who was becoming interested, in spite of her scruples.
"I don't mean to-night, or any night. But in the daytime. She's likely to come, if at all, in broad daylight, I think."
"Aren't the police keeping guard on the house?" inquired my aunt.
"Only the regular patrolman. He passes it every few hours, joggles the doorknob, and goes on. If Vicky is as clever as I think she is, she'll time that policeman, and sneak into the house between his rounds. It's only a chance, you know, but you might see her."
And then I told them all I knew myself of the whole affair. And seeing that I was deeply into the turmoil of it all, and had grave responsibilities, Aunt Lucy withdrew all objections and sympathized with me. Also, she was impressed with my important business connections with the Schuyler family, and was frankly curious about that aristocratic household. I was asked over and over again as to their mode of living, the furniture and appointments of the house, and the attitudes of the widow and the sisters toward each other.
It was late in the evening before I remembered some important papers Mr. Bradbury had given me to hand to Mrs. Schuyler, and as soon as I thought of them I telephoned to know if I might then bring them over.
"Yes," came back Ruth Schuyler's soft voice. "I wish you would. I want to consult you about some other things also."
The interview was less trying than that of the morning had been. Several matters of inheritance, insurance, and such things were discussed, and Mrs. Schuyler was more composed and calm.
She looked better, too, though this was doubtless due, in part, to the fact that she wore a white house dress which was far more becoming than black to her colorless face and light hair.
"I don't know," she said, at length, "whether what I want to say should be said to you or to the detective."
"Tell me first," I said, "and I may be able to advise you. In any case, it will be confidential."
"You are kind," she said, and her grateful eyes smiled appreciatively. "It's this. I'd rather not have that—that Miss Van Allen traced, if it can be prevented in any way. I have a special reason for this, which I think I will tell you. It is, that, on thinking it over I have become convinced that my husband must have known the young woman, and the acquaintance was not to his credit. For some reason, I think, she must have forbidden him the house, and that is why he went there under an assumed name. Mr. Lowney succeeded in getting Mr. Steele on the long distance telephone—"
"Why, where is Steele?"
"In Chicago. Mr. Lowney says that he had to go there on the midnight train, and that is why he left the lady's house—Miss Van Allen's house, so suddenly."
"Really? Well, I am surprised. But, go on, what else did Steele say?"
"He said that Mr. Schuyler was with him at the club, and that he, Mr. Steele, said he was going to Miss Van Allen's party and Mr. Schuyler begged him to take him along, and introduce him as Mr. Somers. It seems he had asked Mr. Steele before to do this, but this time he was more insistent. So Mr. Steele did it. Of course, Mr. Calhoun, I asked Mr. Lowney minutely about all this, because I want to know just what circumstances led up to my husband's going to that house."
"Of course, Mrs. Schuyler, you have every right to know. And did Steele say that was Mr. Schuyler's first visit there or merely his first visit as Mr. Somers?"
"Mr. Steele thought Mr. Schuyler had never been to the house before at all. But may he not have been mistaken? May not Mr. Schuyler have known the lady previously—oh, it is such a moil! But, in any case, Mr. Calhoun, it seems to me that further probing and searching will only pile up opprobrium on the name of Schuyler, and—I can't stand it. I am so unused to notoriety or publicity I can't face all the unpleasantness that must follow! Do help me to avoid it, won't you?"
"I certainly will, if I can. But I fear you ask the impossible, Mrs. Schuyler. The law will not be stopped in its course by personal inclinations."
"No, I suppose not. What is it, Tibbetts?"
The last question was addressed to her maid, who appeared at the doorway. The sad-faced woman looked at her mistress with a mingled air of deference and commiseration.
"The telephone, ma'am," she said. "I said you were busily engaged, but it is some young woman who begs to speak to you a moment."
Mrs. Schuyler excused herself and left the room, and Tibbetts, smoothing down her trim white apron, followed.
"Another would-be secretary," my hostess said, as she returned. "I don't know how a report that I wanted one travelled so quickly, but I've had three offered since noon."
"Do the Schuyler ladies still object?"
"No; at least, they are willing. But I don't want any except a capable one. Not so much experienced, as quick-witted and intelligent. You may as well know, Mr. Calhoun, since you are to look after my affairs, that my late husband was of strictly plain habits. He was almost frugal in his ideas of how little womankind should be indulged in any luxuries or unnecessary comforts. This did not incommode his sisters for they were of the same mind. But I desired certain things which he saw fit to deny me. I make no complaint, I bear his memory no ill will, but I feel that now I may have some of these things. I am my own mistress, and while I have no wish to cast any reflection on Mr. Schuyler's management of his own house, yet, it is now my house, and I must have the privilege of ordering it as I choose."
It had come already, then. Ruth Schuyler and her Puritanical sisters-in-law had met the issue, and Ruth had stood up for her rights. I felt that I knew the woman well enough to know she would not have taken this stand so soon after her husband's death except that some discussion or disagreement had made it necessary for her to assert herself. I bowed in acquiescence, and said, "I am sure, Mrs. Schuyler, there can be no objection to your doing exactly as you please. This house is entirely your own, half Mr. Schuyler's fortune is yours, and you are responsible to nobody for your actions. If not intrusive, I will offer to look you up a suitable secretary. I have a young woman in mind, whom I think you would like."
"I am not easy to please," she said, smiling a little; "I have a very definite idea of what I want. Who is your friend?"
"Not a friend, exactly. An acquaintance of my sister's, who is eligible for the post, if she suits you. Shall I send her round to see you to-morrow?"
"Yes, please. Your mention of her is enough recommendation. I want, Mr. Calhoun, to do more or less charitable work this winter. That was another of Mr. Schuyler's whims, to attend to all charities himself, and to object to my giving anything personally. As I shall be quiet and unoccupied this winter, I plan to do some systematic work in a benevolent way. I know this sounds strange to you, that I should be planning these things so soon. But the truth is, I do plan them, purposely, because I don't want to think about the present horror. I need something to keep my mind from thinking of the awful tragedy or I shall go mad. It seemed to me not wrong to think about some work that should benefit others; and to do this, will give me an outlet for my energies and be helpful to the poor and suffering."
Ruth Schuyler looked almost beautiful as her face glowed with enthusiasm on her subject. I realized how the nervous, highstrung woman must be torn with agony at the revelations of her husband's defects and the uncertainty of his honor and morality, and all in addition to the terrible experiences she was undergoing and must yet encounter.
I went home filled with a desire to help her in every way I could, and though I went to my room at once, I could not think of sleep. I felt like planning ways to put the police off the track or finding some method of making them cease their hunt for Vicky Van.
I went down to the library, and sat down for a smoke and a revery. And I sat there until very late, after two o'clock, in fact, without getting any nearer a plan than I was at the start.
It was nearly three, when I concluded that I could sleep at last. I stood by the front window a moment, looking over at Vicky Van's house, across the street, and a few doors from our own.
As I looked at the darkened dwelling, I saw the front door slowly open. There was no one outside, it was being opened from inside. As I knew the body of Mr. Schuyler had been taken away, and the house had been deserted by all who had been there, and that it was in custody of the police, I looked curiously to see what would happen next.
Out of the door came a slight, small figure. It was, I felt positive, Vicky Van herself! I couldn't mistake that sleek, black head—she wore no hat—or those short, full skirts, that she always wore. She looked about cautiously, and then with swift motions she unlocked the letter-box that was beside her front door, took out several letters, relocked the box and slipped back into the house again!
Without stopping to think I opened my front door, and flew across the street. Mounting her steps, I rang the doorbell hard. There was no response, and I kept on ringing—a veritable bombardment. Then the door opened a very little bit—I could see it was on a night-chain—and Vicky's voice said, "Please go away."
"No, I won't," I said, "let me come in."
"I can't let you come in. Go away,please."
And then the door closed, in my very face, and though I pleaded,"Vicky,dolet me in!" there was no response.
I stood staring at the closed door. What did it mean? Why was Vicky in there and why wouldn't she let me come in?
Then, as I collected my wits, I laughed at myself. I knew why she was there—to get her mail. Doubtless there were important letters that she must have, and she had dared discovery to come at dead of night to get them. The patrolman was not in sight. She had looked out for this, of course. It was the merest chance that I had seen her, otherwise she would have escaped all observation. At three in the morning there are almost no people abroad in the quieter streets of the city, and Vicky had timed her visit well. Of course, she had her own keys, and I felt sure she had stealthily entered at the basement door, and waited her time to secure the letters from the mail-box.
I looked at the mail-box, an unusual appendage to a private residence, but Vicky was away from home so much, it was doubtless necessary. I tried to look in at a window, but all shades were down and there were no lights inside. I wanted to ring the doorbell again, but a sense of delicacy forbade me. I was not a detective, and if I persisted, I might attract the attention of a passer-by or of the returning policeman, and so get Vicky into all sorts of trouble. I wasn't tracking the girl down. If she was a criminal, let the police find her, I had no desire to aid their efforts, but I did want to see Vicky Van. I wanted to offer her my help—not in escaping justice, exactly—but I wondered if I mightn't do some little errands or favors that would show my friendliness.
I went slowly toward home, when I had an inspiration. Hastening into my own house, I flew to the telephone and called Vicky's number, which I knew well.
I waited some time for a response, but at last I heard Vicky's voice say, "Who is it, please?"
An impulse of protection for her, not for myself, led me to withhold my name. Nor did I speak hers.
I said, "This is the man who just left your house. I called up to offer help, if I can render you any."
"That's good of you," she returned, in a heartfelt way. "I appreciate such kindness, but you can do nothing—nothing, thank you."
"At least, talk to me a few minutes. I'm so anxious about you. You are not implicated in the—in the matter, are you?"
"Don't ask me," she murmured, in such a serious voice, that my heart sank. "What I did—or didn't do—must always remain a mystery. I cannot tell you—anything. Don't ask. And, if you would help me, try your best to have inquiries stopped. Can you do this?"
"I fear not. But can't I see you—somewhere—and we can talk plainly?"
"Do you want to?"
"Indeed I do."
"Then you do believe in me? Do you hold me blameless?"
I hesitated at this. I couldn't lie to her, nor could I rid my mind of the conviction of her guilt I said, "I will, if you assure me that is the truth."
"I—I can't do that—good-bye."
"Wait a minute. Did you know the expected guest was coming under an assumed name?"
"I did not."
"Did you know any Somers?"
"No."
"Did you know—the real man?"
"I had met him once, at a dance."
"Did you like him?"
"I neither liked nor disliked. He was an object of utter indifference to me."
"Then why did you—"
"Hush! You can never know. I can't tell you—"
"Then don't. Please believe I want to befriend you." The agony and fear in Vicky's voice thrilled me, and I desired only to shield and protect her. She was so young and alone.
"It is good to have a friendly voice speak to me. But you can only forget me."
"No, let me do something definite. Some errand of trust, some matter of confidence—"
"Do you mean it? Will you?"
"Gladly! What is it?"
"Then if you will collect my mail from the box at the door, after a few days—say, three days—and put it aside for me. You saw me get it to-night, I suppose, and it is a dangerous thing for me to do."
"Where are you—I mean, where are you staying?"
"Don't ask. I am safe. I see the newspapers and I know I am to be hunted down. So I must hide. I cannot face the inquiries—I fear arrest and—and punishment—"
Her tones betrayed guilty fear, and I shuddered at the confirmation of my suspicions. But I would do what I could for her.
"How shall I get your letters?" I asked, and I honestly tried not to disclose my sudden knowledge of her guilt. But her quick ears caught my changed inflection.
"You believe me guilty!" she said, and she stifled a sob. "Yet, still, you will help me! God bless you! Listen, then, for I must stop this talking, it is too desperately dangerous. I will leave the key of the mail box—no, I will send it to you by mail, that will be the safest. Then will you get the letters and put them—where shall I say?"
"I'll mail them to you."
"No, that would never do. You can get into this house, can't you? The police will let you in at any time?"
"Yes, I can probably manage that."
"Then bring them with you, all of the three days' mail at once, you understand, and put them in that great Chinese jar, in the music room. The one with the gold dragon on the cover. No one will look there for them. I will manage to come and get them very soon. Please don't spy on me, will you, Chester?"
The use of my first name was, I knew, inadvertent and unconscious. It thrilled me. There was a marvellous fascination always about Vicky Van, and now, at the end of this my mysterious night telephone conversation, I felt its thrill and I agreed to her plea.
"No, dear," I said, and not till afterward did I realize the term I had used, "I will not spy. But promise me that you will call on me for any help you may need. And tell me—are you alone or is Julie with you?"
"Julie is with me," she returned. "She helps protect me, and with your friendship, too, I am blessed indeed. But this is good-bye. I shall leave New York in a few days never to return. I must have that mail, or I would go at once. If you will help me get that, you will do all there is left for any one to do for me in the world."
Her tone frightened me. "Vicky!" I cried, forgetting all caution. "Don't—my dear, don't—" but I could not put in words the fear that had suddenly come to me, and even as I stammered for speech, the click came that told me she had hung up the receiver.
I cursed myself for my stupidity in speaking her name. Such a blunder! Why, it might have been overheard by anybody on the line. No wonder she left me. Doubtless I had driven her from her house.
I flew to the window. Then I remembered I had promised not to spy, and I turned quickly away. If she were about to disappear silently and stealthily from that house, I must not know it.
I went to my room, but not to sleep. Clearly, I was not to know untroubled slumber again very soon. I sat up and thought it all over.
How strange that I should have "spied" on her just at the moment she was secretly getting her letters. But, I realized, I had looked at the house so often it would be stranger still if I had missed her!
And she was to send me her box key, and I was to secrete her letters for her. Important indeed, those letters must be, that she should go to such lengths to get them. Well, I had constituted myself her knight errant in that particular, and I would fulfil the trust.
Beneath the thrilling excitement of the night's occurrence, I felt a dull, sad foreboding. All Vicky had said or done pointed to guilt. Had she been innocent, she would have told me so, by word or by implication. She would have given me a tacit assurance of her guiltlessness, or would have cried out at the injustice of suspicion.
But none of these things entered into her talk, or even into her voice or intonations. She had sounded sad, hopeless, despairing. And her last words made me fear she contemplated taking her own life.
Poor little Vicky Van. Light-hearted, joy-loving Vicky. What was the mystery back of it all? What could it be? Well, at least, I would scrupulously perform the task she had set me, and I would do it well. I knew I could manage to get into the house by making up some story for the police. But I must wait for the promised key.
With a glimmer of hope that the mailed parcel containing the key might give me a clue to Vicky's whereabouts, I at last went to sleep.
Next morning at breakfast I said nothing of my night experiences. I told Winnie, however, that she needn't watch the Van Allen house, as I had heard that Vicky had left it permanently.
"However could you hear that?" exclaimed my wideawake sister. "Have you had a wireless from the fugitive?"
"Something of the sort," I said, smilingly. "And now, listen here, Win. How do you think that friend of yours, Miss Crowell, would like to be a social secretary for Mrs. Schuyler?"
"She'd love it!" cried Winnie. "Does Mrs. Schuyler want one?"
"Yes, and she wants her mighty quick. From what you've said of the Crowell girl, I should think she'd be just the one. Can you get her on the telephone?"
"Yes, but not so early as this. I'll call her about ten."
"All right, you fix it up. I expect Mrs. Schuyler will pay proper salary to the right secretary. Of course, Miss Crowell is experienced?"
"Oh, yes," assured Win, "and I'm sure she'll love to go. Why, any secretary would be glad to go there."
"Not just now, I should think," observed Aunt Lucy. "The amount of work there must be something fearful."
"It will be heavy, for a time," I agreed, "but it is only for Mrs. Schuyler's personal correspondence and business. I mean, the other two ladies would not expect to use her services."
"All right," said Winnie, "I'll fix it up with Edith Crowell, and if she can't go, I'll ask her to recommend somebody. Shall I send her there to-day?"
"Yes, as soon as she will go. And let me know—telephone the office about noon."
"Yep," Winnie promised, and I went away, my head in a whirl with the various and sundry matters I had to attend to.
I don't think I thought of the secretary matter again, until at noon, Winnie telephoned me that it was all right. I thanked her, and promptly forgot the episode.
And so it was, that when I reached home that night, I had one of the surprises of my life.
Winnie came to dinner, smiling, and rather excited-looking.
"What's up, Infant?" I asked. "Have you accepted a proposal from a nice college lad?"
"Huh!" and Win's head tossed. "I guess you'll open your eyes when I tell you what I have accepted!"
"Tell it out, Angel Child. Relieve your own impatience."
"Well, if you please, I have accepted the post of social secretary toMrs. Randolph Schuyler."
"Winifred Elizabeth Calhoun! You haven't!"
"I thought I'd arouse some slight interest," she said, and she calmly went on with her dinner.
I looked at Aunt Lucy, who sat with a resigned expression, toying with her unused oyster-fork.
"What does she mean?" I asked.
"She has done just what she says," replied Aunt Lucy. "But only for a few days. Miss Crowell—"
"Let me tell!" interrupted Winnie. "It's my party! You see, Chet, Edith Crowell is wild to have the place, and is going to take it, but she can't go until the first of next week. And she doesn't want to lose the chance, so I went over and told Mrs. Schuyler about it. And then as she was simply swamped with letters and telegrams and telephones and callers, and goodness knows what all, I offered to help her out till Edith can get there. And she was so grateful—oh, I think she is a darling. I never saw anyone I liked and admired so much at first sight."
"She is charming," I conceded, "but what a crazy scheme, Win! How did you persuade Aunt Lucy to agree?"
"I managed her," and Winnie bobbed her wise young head, cannily.
It came to me in a moment. Though not exactly a tuft hunter, Aunt Lucy was deeply impressed by real grandeur and elegance. And it came to me at once, that Winnie's tales of the great house and the aristocratic people, had a strong influence on our aunt's views and had brought about her permission for Win to go there for a few days. And it was no harm. It wasn't as if Winnie were a regular secretary, but just to hold the place for Miss Crowell, was simply a kindly deed.
And so, after dinner, I settled myself in our cosy library for a comfortable smoke, and bade Winnie tell me every single thing that had happened through the day.
"Oh, it was thrilling!" Winnie exclaimed. "Part of the time I was at the desk in the library, and part of the time upstairs in Mrs. Schuyler's very own room. She was so kind to me, but she is nearly distracted and I don't wonder! The undertakers' men were in and out, and those two old maids—his sisters, you know—were everlastingly appearing and disappearing. And they don't like Mrs. Schuyler an awful lot, nor she them. Oh, they're polite and all that, but you can see they're of totally different types. I like Mrs. Schuyler heaps better, but still, there's something about the old girls that's the real thing. They're Schuylers and also they're Salton-stalls, and farther back, I believe they're Cabots or something."
"And Mrs. Schuyler, what is she?" I asked, as Win paused for breath.
"I don't know. Nothing particular, I guess. Oh, yes, I learned her name was Ellison before she was married, but the sisters don't consult her about family matters at all. They do about clothes, though. And she knows a lot. Why, Chess, she's having the loveliest things made, if theyaremourning, and the sisters, they ask her about everything they order—to wear, I mean. And, just think! Mrs. Schuyler never wears any jewels but pearls! It's a whim, you know, or it was her husband's whim, or something, but anyway, she has oceans of pearls, and no other gems at all."
"Did she tell you so?"
"Yes; but it came in the conversation, you know. She is no boaster. No sir-ee! She's the modestest, gentlest, sweetest little lady I ever saw. I just love her! Well, I answered a lot of letters for her, and she liked the way I did it, and she liked me, I guess, for she said she only hoped Miss Crowell would suit her as well."
"She knows you're my sister?"
"Of course. But that isn't why she likes me, old bunch of conceit! Though, I must admit, she likes you, Chet. She said you were not only kind, but you have a fair amount of intelligence—no, she didn't use those words, exactly, but I gathered that was what she meant. The funeral is to be tomorrow evening, you know. I had to write and telephone quite a good deal about that, though the sisters tended to it mostly."
"Was there much said about—about the actual case—Winnie?"
"You mean about the murder?" Win's clear eyes didn't blink at the word; "no, not much in my hearing. But Mrs. Schuyler wasn't in the room all the time. And I know Mr. Lowney—isn't he the detective?—was there once, and I think, twice."
"Did you see anyone else?"
"Only some of the servants. Mrs. Schuyler's own maid, her name is Tibbetts, is the sort you read about in English novels. A nice, motherly woman, with gray hair and a black silk apron. I liked her, but the maid who looks after the old sisters, I didn't like so well."
"Never mind the maids, tell me more about Mrs. Schuyler. Does she think Vicky Van killed Mr. Schuyler? Since you're in this thing so deep Win, there's no use mincing matters."
"I should say not! Yes, of course, she thinks the Vicky person did the killing. How could she think anything else? And the two sisters are madly revengeful. As soon as the funeral is over, they're going to work to find that girl and bring her to justice! They say the inquest will help a lot. When will that be, Chess? Can I go to it?"
"No, of course not, Winnie?" This from Aunt Lucy. "It's one thing for you to help Mrs. Schuyler out in an emergency, but you're not to get mixed up in a murder trial!"
"An inquest isn't a trial, Auntie," and Win looked like a wise owl, as she aired her new and suddenly acquired knowledge. "Can't I go, Chess?"
"We'll see, Infant. Perhaps, if Mrs. Schuyler needs your services she may want you there with her."
"Oh, in that case—" began Aunt Lucy, but Winnie was off again on one of her enthusiastic descriptions of the grand ways of the Schuyler household, and Aunt Lucy was quite willing to listen.
As for me, I wanted the benefit of every possible sidelight on the whole business, and I, too, took in all Winnie's detailed narrations.
The inquest was in progress. In the coroner's courtroom inquiry was being made in an endeavor to discover who was responsible for the death of Randolph Schuyler. The funeral of the millionaire had taken place, and the will had been read, and now the public awaited news of the action of the police in placing the crime and producing the criminal.
The case had become a celebrated one, not only because of the prominence of the victim, but because of the mystery surrounding the young woman suspected of the deed of murder.
Many voluntary witnesses had come forward with additional information regarding Victoria Van Allen, but none of these knew anything more of her relatives or progenitors than I did myself.
Some of these were asked to testify at the inquest, but more were not so called on, as their testimony was in no way material or vital.
I did not propose to attend all the sessions, myself, but I wanted to hear the opening queries and learn just how the case was to be managed.
Doctor Remson told of his examination of Mr. Schuyler's body and testified that death was practically instantaneous as a result of a single stab of the short, sharp knife. The knife was produced and identified. It had been carefully taken care of and had been photographed to preserve the faint fingermarks, which were on its handle, and which might or might not be the prints of the murderer's fingers.
The caterer Fraschini told of his orders for the party supper, and of the sending of his best and most faithful waiters to attend to the feast.
Luigi, the head waiter, again went over his story. I had heard this twice before, but I listened with deep interest, and I realized, that, granting the truth of his recital, there was no room for doubt of Vicky Van's guilt.
I hadn't of course, told of seeing her take her mail from the box that night, nor of her talking to me over the telephone. Should absolute law and justice call for that information, I might give it up, but at present, I was awaiting developments.
Vicky had sent me her mailbox key, and I had received it duly, by mail. It was not sent by parcel post, nor was it registered—these would have called for the sender's address—but, sent by ordinary first-class letter post, the flat little key came duly and promptly.
I had not used it yet, the time was not ripe until that same night, and I intended to say nothing of it, until I had fulfilled my promise, if, indeed, I ever told of it.
But Luigi's story as I heard it again made me shiver with apprehension. Surely, since he saw Vicky right there at the moment, bending over the victim, blood stains on her gown, there could be no loophole of innocence. Had the murderer been some one else, and had Vicky known it, she must have made an outcry—must have accused the guilty party. There was no one whom Vicky loved well enough to wish to shield. And, too, the guests were all in the big living-room; there was no one unaccounted for. If Luigi himself, or any of the caterer's men had by chance done the deed, Vicky wouldn't have run away! There was no sense in that. So I could see no possible theory but that of Vicky's actual guilt. Why she did it, was another story. She may have known Schuyler before, might have known him a long time, might have had her own reasons for wishing him dead; but all that was outside the issue of her criminality. There was no eyewitness of the stabbing itself, but Luigi's presence on the scene an instant later, left no room for question as to the hand that had held the knife.
The jury seemed to think this. Gravely the men listened to what theItalian told, and their faces showed what they believed.
Then came the guests of the party. One after another, they told the same story. All knew Vicky fairly well, as a pleasant acquaintance; all liked her as a good friend; all enjoyed her as a delightful hostess; and many told individual instances of Vicky's kind heart and helping hand. Not infrequently had she lent assistance, both financial and in other ways, to these friends of hers. Never, they all said, had they known her to do a mean or deceitful act or to say an unkind or malicious word.
The men spoke of her as a gay, light-hearted butterfly girl, who was a coquette, but who stopped short of a real flirtation; the women gave her such commendation as is rarely given them to their own sex, and declared that Miss Van Allen was a simple, kindly, generous nature without a trace of the disposition which causes a woman to be dubbed acat.
Norman Steele was present. He explained his sudden departure from the party by the fact that he had to catch an owl train for Chicago. He said, further, that Randolph Schuyler had asked him to take him around to Vicky Van's, as he wanted to meet her. But he had asked Steele, especially, to introduce him as Mr. Somers. He had given no reason for this, and Steele had thought little of it. Randolph Schuyler was a man whom his friends obeyed, often without question. I understood this. Steele was no more of a toady to the millionaire than most men would be; but a request of Randolph Schuyler's was not to be thoughtlessly refused, so Steele acquiesced.
He was reticent in further dilating on Schuyler's character. Said he often called on ladies who could not be called exclusive, but denied knowledge of definite cases or names.
On the whole, Steele's evidence didn't get us anywhere. We already knew that Schuyler had gone to Vicky Van's under an assumed name. The reason for this had little, if anything, to do with what had followed. A connection of some sort, between Vicky and Mr. Schuyler must be traced, in order to arrive at her possible motive. A woman does not stab to kill a chance guest whom she has never met before!
Bert Garrison came next. His talk ran mostly to eulogies of Vicky. The poor fellow was dead in love with her, and had been for many moons, but though Vicky favored him more than some others, yet she gave him no definite encouragement, as he himself ruefully admitted. But he made a desperate effort to show that a girl of Victoria Van Allen's high character and fine qualities would be incapable of a base deed.
The coroner smiled a little at Garrison's vehemence, and let him run on for a time, in praise of the absent Vicky.
At last, he said, "And, why, then, Mr. Garrison, in your opinion hasMiss Van Allen disappeared?"
"The disappearance is not of her own volition," declared Garrison; "she has been taken away by somebody and held against her will, in order to make her appear guilty."
This was a new theory. I might have given it serious consideration had I not had speech with the girl herself. It couldn't be that Vicky was held captive, since she was at her own house two nights after the crime. But I could see that the jury, and even the coroner and detectives were interested in this idea.
"By whom could she possibly, or theoretically, he thus held?" the coroner asked.
"I don't know. But assuming some intruder effected an entrance and stabbed Mr. Schuyler, if surprised during or after the act by the sudden appearance of Miss Van Allen in the dining room, he might in some way have gotten her out of the house, and still be keeping her in a hiding-place."
It was perhaps, a possibility, but I didn't see how any intruder could do all that, without being seen by the waiters. Unless, perchance, the waiters had been bribed to silence. And that, in the face of Luigi's earnest, and convincing testimony, I could not believe.
It was a fantastic theory, evolved in the brain of Garrison, for the purpose of diverting suspicion from Vicky Van. However, it seemed to impress the coroner, and he made notes as he dismissed the witness.
Cassie Weldon added one bit of new information. She said, though with evident reluctance, that she had caught a mere glimpse of somebody running upstairs, just before the waiter had come to call for help.
Cassie had not wanted to testify at all. As she had intimated to me, it was detrimental to her work as a concert singer to be mixed up in this affair. But since she had to give her testimony, she apparently felt it her duty to tell the whole truth.
"How could you see the stairs from the living-room?" asked the interested coroner.
"I was near the door, and though I was not looking out into the hall, I had a vague, fleeting impression of somebody running upstairs. I paid no attention to it, of course, but I am sure somebody did."
"A man or a woman?"
"A woman. That is, I was conscious of a flutter of skirts, but I am not sure it was Miss Van Allen. I didn't see her clearly enough even to notice the color of her gown. It was merely a glimpse of some one flying round the newel post and up the stairs. It might have been a stranger."
"You mean, if there were some intruder, it may have been a woman, and not a man?"
"I don't know, I tell you. I can only say I know somebody ran upstairs. Further than that, I've no idea concerning it."
"It must have been Miss Van Allen," said the coroner, decidedly; "had it been any other woman, and had she stabbed Mr. Schuyler, Miss Van Allen would not have disappeared. Now, if this woman who ran upstairs was Miss Van Allen, she effected an escape from the upper stories. Is there a skylight exit?"
No one seemed to know, as no one had thought of Vicky Van leaving her house by such means.
But to me, the idea was ridiculous. A girl, in elaborate evening gown, clambering out of a skylight trap-door, to where? Not to a neighbor's, for Vicky Van knew none of the nearby residents. I had heard her say so, myself. And had she descended into a strange household, and begged for shelter, it would have become known before this.
Well, anyway, the detective Lowney immediately sent an order to have the skylight matter looked into and the proceedings went on.
Ariadne Gale was closely questioned as to how she knew of the picture in the back of Randolph Schuyler's watch. But she declared that he had shown it to her during their conversation that evening.
"I never saw the man before," said Ariadne, who unlike Cassie Weldon, rather enjoyed the publicity of the occasion. "I chanced to be about the first girl he was introduced to, when he came into the house. And we had a chat, and when I chaffed him a bit on his dignity and awe-inspiring presence, he refuted it by showing me the picture in his watch. He said it was a little chorus girl he had taken out to supper the night before. I could see the picture had been merely tucked in temporarily, it wasn't neatly pasted in, as a watch-case picture usually is, and then I chaffed him on his fickleness. Our conversation was the merest foolery, and a moment after, he went over to be presented to Miss Van Allen."
"You think they had never met before?"
"I'm sure they had not. They looked at each other with the conventional politeness of strangers, I know Miss Van Allen well, and she is not one to dissemble or pretend. I am sure she had never laid eyes on that man before. She simplycouldn'thave killed him!"
Ariadne's further evidence amounted to nothing, nor did that of several other of the party guests who were called on.
Except Mrs. Reeves. She knew more of Vicky's home life than any of the rest of us, but even she knew nothing of the girl's origin.
She had first met her at one of Miss Gale's studio parties, and had taken a fancy to her at once.
"Where didyoufirst meet her, Miss Gale," the coroner interrupted to ask.
"She came to my studio to look at my pictures," was the reply. "She admired them, and bought one. She was so pleasant and so interested in my work that she came two or three times, and then I invited her to one of my little studio affairs. She quickly made friends, and she invited us to her house. I went there first about two years ago."
"So did I," Mrs. Reeves resumed. "And since then, I have been there frequently, and every time I saw the girl I liked her better. But she was always a bit of a mystery. I confess I tried at times, to learn something of her previous life. But she adroitly evaded my questions, and cleverly changed the subject. I think, however, from chance hints she let drop, that her home was somewhere in the Middle West."
"An indefinite term," observed Coroner Fenn.
"It's all I know."
"Where did Miss Van Allen go on her frequent absences from her home?"
"That I don't know, either. Often she'd be away a week, and on her return would tell of a gay house party down on Long Island or a week-end trip up Westchester way, but I don't remember any definite place she visited."
"I do," piped up Ariadne. "She often goes to Greenwich, Connecticut, and to Bronxville. I've heard her tell of these trips. She has a wide circle of acquaintances and, of course, she's a favorite with all who know her."
"I have a piece of evidence," resumed Mrs. Reeves, "which I daresay I ought to exhibit. It is a letter from Miss Van Allen, which I received only this morning."
This caused a sensation. A letter from Vicky Van! Just received! I found myself trembling in my shoes. And I asked myself why. Was I afraid the girl would be caught? Did I want to shield a felon? And I had to admit to myself that I did. I wasn't in love with Vicky Van, but I had a tremendous interest in her, and I didn't want that little lone, helpless person haled before a court of justice. Vicky did seem terribly alone. Hosts of friends she had, but no one who was in any way responsible for her, or in a position to help her. Well, if she ever returned, voluntarily or perforce, she would find a friend and champion in one Chester Calhoun, of that I was certain!
Mrs. Reeves handed her letter over to the coroner, and he read it out.It ran:
My dear Mrs. Reeves: You have always been such a good friend to me that I'm writing you just a line. You are everything that is good and kind, and now I'm going to ask you as a final favor to forget Vicky Van at once and forever. I am going away and I shall never return. Don't think of me any more hardly than you must, but if you can keep any loving little memory of the hours we spent together, I want you to do so. And as a remembrance, I want you to have my little electric coupe. It is in Rennard's garage, and I have written him to turn it over to you. I shall miss our happy times together, but—I can never come back. Do not worry about me, I am safe. And I am your affectionate Vicky Van.
"You are sure this is from Miss Van Allen?" asked Fenn.
"Oh, yes," replied Mrs. Reeves. "There's no mistaking that writing."
Nor was there. I knew Vicky's penmanship, and it was most peculiar. Never have I seen such a hand. Angular, slightly backhanded, and full of character, it would be difficult to imitate it, and, too, no one would have any reason to forge that letter to Mrs. Reeves. She had verified Vicky's statement, and found that a letter to the garage owner had instructed him to give up the car to Mrs. Reeves, and he had already done so, that very morning.
The letters had both been mailed in New York the night before, the postmark showing that they were mailed in the district that included Vicky's residence.
Was she, then, even now in hiding near her home? Or, had she sent the letters to be mailed by some one else? By Julie, perhaps, who, I felt sure, was with her mistress, wherever that might be.
My leaping thoughts took in all this, and by degrees the slower going coroner, put it in words.
Lowney, the detective, bristled with interest. A clue, he had, he thought, but what a clue! Two letters posted in the city. What did they show of the whereabouts of the missing girl?
Lowney scrutinized the one to Mrs. Reeves. Ordinary paper, such as might be bought in any stationery or department store, no monogram or initial on it, nor was there any maker's name under the flap.
But a dozen people present testified to Vicky's handwriting, and the coroner eagerly took possession of the letter.
Sherlock Holmes, I thought to myself, would read that letter, look at it through his good old lens, smell it, and then walk out, and return in a half hour, with Vicky Van in tow!
But for my part, I could see nothing illuminating in that plain paper and envelope, and the letter in the well-known penmanship.
All I gathered was, that wherever Vicky was, she was not only safe but comfortable. The tenor of the note breathed leisure and composure. Clearly, she was not breathlessly hurrying from one place to another, or vigilantly eluding pursuit. She was at ease, with opportunity to indulge in thoughtful kindness to a friend, and to write at length about herself.
At length, yes, but with no hint of her hiding-place nor any clue to it. Poor little Vicky! She seemed so alone—and yet—how did I know? She may have gone to friends or—somehow I hated to think that she had any man who was her legal—or even willing protector.
Yet she said she was safe, and her letter showed no fear of the future. And then again I was stabbed by the thought that perhaps there was no earthly future for Vicky Van. I didn't want her to kill herself—I didn't want her to be found and arrested—what did I want? I wasn't sure in my own mind, save that I wanted her safety above all else. I suppose I believed her guilty—I could believe nothing else, but even so, I didn't want her brought to bay.
I gave my own testimony, which was all true, and all frank, except that I said nothing of my nocturnal visit to Vicky's house or of our telephone conversation. If my conscience smote me I combated it with my chivalry, which would not allow me to betray a woman into the hands of the law.
The later witnesses, who were mostly the working people whom Vicky employed by the day, told nothing of her or of her home life. They all spoke of her as a kind lady to work for, though, as a rule, they had not seen her, but had been engaged, directed and paid by the maid, Julie.
It seemed to be tacitly assumed that wherever Vicky was Julie was with her. I had had this information from Vicky herself, but others took it for granted, in the absence of any reason to think the contrary.
The whole day's session, to my mind, achieved little of useful information. Mrs. Reeves' letter proved conclusively that Vicky was aware of the search being made for her, and showed her determination not to be found. It was Saturday, and when the inquest was adjourned until Monday morning, I couldn't help feeling that it might as well have been permanently adjourned, for all the further conclusions it would lead to.
I went home at last, thrilling with the thought that that night I was to get Vicky's mail from her box and hide it where she had directed. I secretly hoped she might be in the house herself, waiting for it, but scarcely dared believe this would be the case.
Nor was it. I had secured a latch-key to the house, from the police, who were willing enough for me to search for possible clues, as I had told them I would do.
At their wits' end to locate Vicky Van, they welcomed my help and felt that as a friend of hers, I might learn more than a disinterested policeman could.
So, well after midnight, watching my chance when the patrolman had just passed on his regular round, I went across the street.
Easily I opened the mailbox and extracted a quantity of letters.
Quietly, then, I opened the house door and went in.
I had provided myself with a pocket flashlight, as I didn't want to illuminate the house, and I went at once to the music room, to perform my errand.
How strange it seemed! The lovely room, with dainty white and gold furnishings, reminded me so forcibly of the bewitching girl who owned it all. A thousand questions rose in my mind. What would become of that bijou residence? The bric-a-brac and pictures, the rugs and furniture, while not magnificent, were of the best, and many of them costly. The great Chinese vase, into which I was to drop the letters was a gem of its kind, though not anything a connoisseur would covet.
I raised the dragon-topped lid, and let the letters fall in. Replacing the lid, I still lingered. My errand was done, but I felt an impulse to stay. Everything spoke to me of Vicky Van. Where was she now? Making sure that the opaque blinds were drawn, I dared to turn on one tiny electric lamp. The faint light made the shadowed room lovelier than ever. Could a girl of such cultivated tastes and such refinement of character be a—a wrong-doer? I couldn't say murderer even to myself. Then my common sense flared up, and told me that crime is no respecter of persons. That women who had slain human beings were not necessarily of this or that walk of life. Granted a woman had a motive to kill a man, that motive lay in the impulses of her feminine nature, and revenge, jealousy, fear, love or hate—whatever the motive, it was of deep and over-powering and might find its root in equal likeliness in the breast of queen or beggarmaid. I could not say Vicky was incapable of crime—indeed, her gay, volatile manner might hide a deeply perturbed spirit. She was an enigma, and I—I must solve the riddle. I felt I should never rest, until I knew the truth, and if Vicky were a martyr to circumstances, or a victim to Fate, I must know all about it.
Alone there, in the midnight hours, I resolved to devote my time, all I could spare, my energies, all I could command, and my life, so far as I might, to the discovery of the truth, and I might or might not reveal my findings as seemed to me best.
Leaving the music room, I went back through the long hall, and passed the door of Vicky's bedroom. Reverently I looked inside. The very walls seemed crying for her to come back. Would she ever so do? I wandered on through the bedroom, and even looked in the dressing room. I felt no compunction. It was not from idle curiosity, rather, I walked as one at a shrine. The exquisitely feminine boudoir was a mute witness to a love of beauty and art. I used only my flashlight, but on an impulse, I turned on one light by the side of the long mirror. I looked in it, as Vicky must often have done when dressing for her parties, as, indeed, she must have done, when dressing that last fatal night and seeing my own grim reflection, I gravely nodded my head at myself, and whispered, "We'll find the truth, old man, you see if we don't!"
In the ornate Florentine frame, with its branching arabesques, was a strand of the gold beads that had adorned Vicky's gown that night. I visualized her, whirling her skirts about before the mirror, with that quick, lithe grace of hers, and catching the fluttering fringe in the gilt protuberance. Perhaps she exclaimed in petulance, but, more likely, I thought, she laughed at the trivial accident. That was Vicky Van, as I knew her, to laugh at a mischance, and smile good-naturedly at an accident.
I lifted the strand of little beads from the entangling frame, and put it away in my pocketbook, as a dear and intimate souvenir of the girl I had known. Then, with a final glance that was a sort of farewell, I glimpsed the pretty, cosy nest, and went downstairs.
Here I paused again. Cassie Weldon had said she could see the staircase from the door of the living-room. I tried it. She was right. A person standing just inside the living-room door, could catch sight of a person on the stairs. And, as Cassie, said, she was not looking that way, but was partly conscious of some one running up the stairs. It might well be. She would naturally give the incident no thought at the moment—it was strange she had even remembered it. And it may have been Vicky. Then she might have descended by the rear staircase, there probably was one, I didn't know. And anyway, what mattered it how she had left the house? She had left it, and had not returned.
I remembered the allusion to the skylight. In a jiffy, I had run upstairs clear to the highest story. There was a skylight, or scuttle, rather, and it was bolted on the inside.
That settled that. Vicky Van had not climbed out that way, and I for one, never supposed she had.
Strangely reluctant to leave the house, I went downstairs again, looked into the living-room, and passed on to the dining-room. I contemplated the sideboard, in front of which Randolph Schuyler had met his death. Many pieces of silver and glass stood upon it, and all was in order, as if it had been carefully looked after for the party occasion.
Without consciously noting details, I chanced to observe that a small silver-handled carving fork, was lacking its knife. I had no knowledge of Vicky Van's table appurtenances, but the way the fork lay looked to me as if the knife had lain across it, and had been removed.
I had no concern over it, for I knew the knife that had stabbed Schuyler was now in possession of the police, and this one had doubtless been used in preparation of the supper, if indeed, there was a knife belonging to the fork.
It was a matter of no moment, but somehow it stuck in my mind. If Vicky or rather, if Julie had straightened up things on the sideboard in the process of tidying up for the party, would she not have laid the fork a different way, unless there had been a matching knife to lay across it? I suppose the whole question came into my mind, because at home, we had a beefsteak carving set that always lay crossed on the sideboard. A man gets accustomed to the sight of such household details, and they photographed on his memory.
Well, anyway, I looked for that knife. I even went to the butler's pantry and looked, but I didn't see it. The pantry had been hastily evacuated by the caterer's men, and though tidied, it was not in spick and span condition. You see, having lived so long with two such homey bodies as Aunt Lucy and Win, I was not utterly unversed in domestic matters. The pantry was well equipped with modern utensils and implements, and all its appointments spoke of the taste and efficiency of its mistress.
"Poor Vicky," I sighed to myself, "poor, dear little Vicky Van!" and then I went softly out of the front door and down the steps.
I went slowly, and looked back several times, in a vague hope that Vicky might emerge from some nearby shadow and go into the house for her letters. But I saw no sign of such a happening, and went on home, my heart full of a gloomy foreboding that I would never see her again.
"Going to work on Sunday, Winnie?" I asked, as next morning, my sister appeared, garbed for the street.
"Not regularly to work, but Mrs. Schuyler wants me to look after some matters of confidence."
"Oho, how important we are!" I chaffed her. "When does the Crowell lady come into her own?"
"Not for another week. She isn't quite ready to come, and Mrs.Schuyler is willing to keep me on a while longer."
"I don't blame her," and I looked at my pretty, bright-faced sister with approval. "I say, old girl, s'pose I stroll over with you."
"Come along. Though I'm not sure Mrs. Schuyler will see you. She usually sends me to receive callers."
"Well, Little Miss Manage-It, I could even live through that. And perhaps I'll get a look-in with the fair sisters-in-law."
"That, surely, if you wish. They're ready and eager to see visitors. I believe they love to go over the details of the whole affair with anyone who will listen."
"Oh, come now, Win, not as bad as that."
"They don't think it's bad. They're bound to track down the Van Allen girl, and they hold the opinion that everybody they get hold of may be an important witness. They go over the reports from the inquest all the time, and can hardly wait till tomorrow to see what will come out next."
"Me for them," I responded. "I'd like a good chat on the subject."
We went over to the Fifth Avenue house, and were admitted by the solemn and wise-eyed butler. I was shown to the library, while Winnie was directed to go to Mrs. Schuyler's room.
But it was not long before we were all together in the library—widow, sisters, and all, for Lowney had made a discovery and he proposed to tell the family of it.
Win and I were allowed to be present, and the detective showed his new find.
It seems he had been searching the papers and letters of the late Mr. Schuyler. This had been not only permitted by the wife, but had been urged by the sisters, who hoped it might result in some further light on the mysterious Miss Van Allen. And it did. In the desk, in a secret compartment—which was not so secret but that the detective could open it—were a number of letters from feminine pens, and a number of receipted bills for jeweled trinkets, presumably sent to these or other ladies, for they were not of a sort affected by Ruth Schuyler or the two sisters. A blue enameled watch bracelet, and a rhinestone tiara were representative purchases entered on these bills.
But the pile of letters sank into insignificance, when we learned the fact that there was a letter from Vicky Van among them!
Regardless of Mrs. Schuyler's feelings, Lowney read the letter aloud.This was it:
My Dear Mr. Schuyler:
I enjoyed your supper party, and it was good of you to give me inside information about the stocks. But I must beg of you to cease your further attentions to me, as I cannot number on my list of calling acquaintances the husband of another woman. I am, perhaps, rather prudish in my view of life, but this is one of my inviolable rules.
Very truly yours,Victoria Van Allen.
I knew that before. Vicky Van, living alone and unchaperoned, save for the ubiquitous Julie, flouted convention in many ways, but it was as she said, her inviolable rule to receive no married man without his wife at her parties. Nor was there often occasion for her to use this stipulation. The young people whom I had met at her house, had always been maids and bachelors, and now and then, a young married couple who playfully enacted a chaperon part. Mrs. Reeves, a widow, was probably the oldest of the crowd, but she was well under forty.
It was quite true, no married man, and indeed, no man of the type or age of Randolph Schuyler, had ever, to my knowledge, enjoyed the friendship of Vicky Van. But not for a minute, did I think that she would go so far as to kill him for daring to enter her house! That was unthinkable.
And yet, it seemed so to Lowney, and, apparently, to the sisters of the dead man.
She declared that the letter proved that Randolph had intruded on her acquaintance, and she had objected from coyness or coquetry; and that when he persisted, she was so enraged that she flew into a passion and wilfully ended his life.