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 master-mind 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 adviser 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 Vicky 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 half-way open, and looking out was a boy, a red-headed chap, with a freckled face and bright, wise eyes.
I turned quickly and went in at the area gate.
"Who are you?" I demanded, "and what are you doing here?"
"I'm Fibsy," he said, as if that settled it.
"Fibsy who?" I asked, but I dropped my indignant tone, for the lad seemed to be composedly sure of his rights there.
"Aw, jest Fibsy. That's me name, because, if you want to know, becauseI'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 yer 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. "C'mon 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. 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 holdin' up this door, waitin' for yer honor to pass by. An' I got you, didn't I?"
"Yes, I'm 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 o' the heats. There's no use gettin' up the steam fer the few casual callers that drops in at present. Now, Mr. Calhoun, I don't want to be stuffy nor nuthin', but Mr. Stone said I might ask you some few things, if I liked an' you can answer or not, as you like. This ain't no orficial investigation, but I s'pose you're as intrusted as anybody in findin' this here Victoria Van Allen?"
"I'm interested in finding the murderer of Mr. Schuyler," I replied.
"An' maybe they ain't one an' the same. That's 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-aged. 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 Miss 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-riders?"
"I'm not sure. Spectacles, I think. And she has a great many gold-filled teeth."
"Front ones?"
"Yes, that is, they're very noticeable when she speaks to you."
"Well, that's sumpum. Is she quick and spry-like, or poky?"
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 Miss Van Allen is, that Julie's there, too. And when Miss 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 Miss Van Allen has mailed letters and—oh, well, of course she could mail letters in lots of ways, but sumpum tells me, that she depends on Miss 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 Miss 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, that 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 abserlutely necessary. And on the other hand, I'm a born protector of women. Why, I'd be only too tickled to find a gentleman suspect. Or, at least, to clear Miss Van Allen from all s'picion."
"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 ree'lize what a nice lady she is. I don't have to see her, to understand her tastes and her 'complishments. Why, jest the books on her centre 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's she's the knife-sticker. Not by no means. But find her I've gotto! Because F. Stone says for me to."
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, gettin' in with F. Stone, made me see it's wrong to lie—usuerly, that is. So I don't, now—leastways, not much. Only when it's jest 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'n 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 infermation, you an' me may as well make our adooses."
"How do you know I haven't revealed all I know of the case?"
"Oh, I read from your mobile counternance that you're keepin' sumpum back, but it don't matter. F. Stone'll nail it, when he gets good an' ready. What I wanted from you was mostly the speakin' likeness of the Julie dame. An' 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 gimme her address?"
I did so, and then I went away, thinking Fleming Stone a queer sort of detective to have for assistant 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 Schuyler 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 or 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 Tibbetts 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. Schuyler'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 realized 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. Schuyler 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. Schuyler'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 Schuyler 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 gayety, the other a gentle, dovelike personality, which, however, hinted sometimes at hidden fires. I believed that Ruth Schuyler 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 fact 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 merest 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 and 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 gayly at me. "Your thoughts seem 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 exulted 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've no doubt Miss Van Allen is charming, and her home a perfect gem, but I own up I'm not anxious to discuss her all the time and with every one."
"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 adviser in all my quandaries. First, and this is a serious matter, I don't want to continue to live with the Schuyler 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 Schuyler 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, Winnie 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 Schuyler 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 Tibbetts, and just be quietly by myself, while the Schuylers 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 Schuyler's tyranny and carping criticism without his right to obtrude them on her.
"I will speak to them," I said, "and I'm sure we can arrange some mode of life for you which will give you rest and freedom of judgment."
"Oh, if you only can!" she murmured, as she held out a friendly hand.
It was Sunday afternoon, and we were in conclave in the Schuyler 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 some one 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 any one I interviewed. She returned to her house last Monday night, the police believe, 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 I have kept it under strict surveillance. I think she will never return to it. Presumably she got the letters she was so anxious for. Her mail, that has arrived the last few days, I have not opened, but the envelopes show mostly tradesmen'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've 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 am 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 unavenged. 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-souled 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 Fibsy 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 'em!"
"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."
Fibsy 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 Fibsy over there to induce her to give us at least a hint of Miss Van Allen's personal appearance. The boy could wheedle 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 merest sketches. A wash of water-color, but they showed merit. As the only one present who knew Vicky Van, I was asked of the truth of their portraiture.
"Fairly good," I said, "yes, more than that. This of Vicky 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 sidelong glance of Vicky Van's dark-lashed eyes, and the curve of her scarlet lips. The coloring was perfect, just Vicky'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 women 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 Vicky'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 gray 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 Vicky 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, Fibsy and Ruth were holding a tete-a-tete conversation. The kind-hearted woman had, doubtless, felt sorry for the boy's shyness, and had drawn him into chat to put him at his 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?"
"'Cause you're just like a little spring flower—a white crocus or a bit of arbutus."
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 glassed 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 is 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 young 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 all 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 thoroughness of her disappearance, the very inviolable secrecy of her hiding-place proves to me that she isn't hiding."
"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."
"Pshaw!" 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. Schuyler?"
"You're on," I said, shortly, but not annoyed at his perspicacity.
"Well, then, I assure you that Mrs. Schuyler 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. Schuyler'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 Schuyler, I felt I had no right to do anything that she would disapprove. And, I knew that a touch of feminine pique 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 Van's. 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 some one was present. I knew that by her startled movement. She gave a stifled scream, and pushing the great jar off on the floor, where it crashed to pieces, she rushed out of the room and down stairs.
"After her, Calhoun! Fly!" shouted Stone, and as he flung back the heavy curtains the street lights 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 turn 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 warily. She's a witch, a wonder-woman, but all the same, the earth didn't open and swallow her!"
We searched every area way on the block. One of us would go in and explore while the other stood guard. The third house was the Schuyler 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've wondered if she isn't concealed in one of these nearby houses, as she has 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 houses and 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.
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 whetted his eagerness to discover her hiding place and bring her to book.
He established himself in her house, and both he and Fibsy practically lived there, going out for their meals or picnicking in the basement room. This room became his headquarters, and a plain clothes man was on duty whenever Stone and Fibsy 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 to-day."
It was the day after Vicky had given us the slip. It was midafternoon, 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 Schuyler cause.
"Randolph Schuyler 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 law's. 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 Van.
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 Schuyler, 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 especial 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 Schuyler, 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 gayety or pleasure.
For instance, she spoke of her great enjoyment of light opera or farce comedy, but as Mr. Schuyler 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 Fibsy chanced to be present.
"Gee!" he said, looking at Ruth commiseratingly, "ain't you never heard 'The Jitney Girl' or 'The Prince of Peoria'?"
Ruth shook her head, smiling at the boy's amazement. There was a subtle sympathy between these two that surprised me, for Ruth Schuyler was fastidious 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, Stone and I sat in the basement room awaiting Fibsy's return. He was out after certain information and we hoped much from it.
"I gotta bunch o' dope," he announced, as he suddenly appeared before us. "Dunno 's it'll pan out much, but listen 'n' I'll spill a earful."
I had learned that Fibsy, or Terence, 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 chore boy first," he related, "an' he didn't know anything at all. Said Miss Van Allen's a lovely lady, but he 'most never saw her, the Julie dame did all the orderin' an' payin' s'far's he was concerned. Good pay, but irregular work. She'd be here a day or two, an' then like's not go 'way for a week. Well, we knew that before. Then, next, I tracked to his lair the furnace man. Same story. Here to-day an' gone to-morrer, as the song says. 'Course, he ain't only a stoker, he's really an odd job man—ashes, sidewalks, an' such. Well, he didn't help none—any, I mean. But," and the shock of red hair seemed to bristle with triumph, "I loined one thing! That Julie has been to the sewing woman and the laundress lady and shut 'em 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 'bout a week ago and give her fifty dollars not to tell anything at all whatsomever 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 Fibsy 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 boodore a-sewin' an' might have overheard some gossip or sumpum like that, an' Miss Van Allen was afraid she'd scatter it, an' 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, an' respectable at that. Well, then, the laundress. To her also Julie had likewise went. An' to her also Julie had passed the spondulicks. Now, I don't understand that so well, for laundresses don't overhear the ladies talkin', but, anyway, Julie told her if she wouldn't answer a question to anybody, she'd give her half a century, too. And did."
"Doubtless the laundress knew something Miss Van Allen wants kept secret."
"Doubtless, sir," said Fibsy, gravely.
"But I don't believe," mused 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?"
Fibsy 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 lady's 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 Vicky is disguised. Her personality is too pronouncedand so is Julie's. I think some friend is caring for them. Not AriadneGale, of that I'm sure. But it may be Mrs. Reeves. She is very fond ofVicky and is clever enough to hide the girl all this time."
"The police have searched her house—"
"I know, but Mrs. Reeves and Vicky 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, Fibsy. Did the caterers take it away by mistake?"
"No, sir; I 'vestergated that, an' they didn't."
"That knife is an important thing, to my mind," the detective went on.
"Yes, sir," eagerly agreed Fibsy. "It may yet cut the Gorgian knot! Why, Mr. Stone, the sewing lady knew that knife. She was here to lunching a few days before the moider, an' she says she always sat at the table in the dining room to eat, after Miss Van Allen got through. An' she says that knife was there, 'cos they had steak, an' she used it herself. I described the fork puffeckly, an' she reckernized it at onct."
"You're a bright boy!" I exclaimed in involuntary tribute to this clever bit of work.
"I'm 'ssociated with Mr. Stone," said Fibsy, 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 the 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? Fibsy, where is it?"
Fleming Stone's frequent appeals to the boy were often in a half-bantering 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 gotter be. That lady left the house in a mighty hurry but all the same she didn't go out a brandishin' of a carvin'-knife! Nor did she take it along an drop it in the street or an ash can for it'd been found. So, she siccreted it summer, an' 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 o' ways. Frinst' on Sat'day, I noticed a clean squarish place in the dust on a table in the lady's bedroom, an' it's where a book was. That book disappeared durin' Friday night. I don't remember seein' 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 Miss Vick comes an' goes pretty much as she likes—or did till you'n me camped out here."
"Then you think she left the knife here that night, and has since returned and taken it away?"
"I donno," Fibsy 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. Fibsy was in Vicky Van's dressing room, staring about him. He stood in the middle of the floor, his hands in his pockets, wheeling round on one heel.
"They say she ran upstairs 'fore she flew the coop," he murmured, not looking at us. "That Miss Weldon said that. Well, if she did, she natchelly came up here for a cloak an' bonnet. I'll never believe that level-headed young person went out into the cold woild in her glad rags, an' no coverin'. Well, then, say, she lef' that knife here, locked up good an' plenty. Where—where, I say, would she siccrete it?"
He glared round the room, as if trying to wrest the secret from its inanimate contents.
"Mr. Stone says that walls have tongues. I believe it, an' I know these walls are jest yellin' the truth at me, an' yet, I'm so soul-deef 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 cubbid in this here very room."
"Maybe, Fibsy," said Stone, cheerfully. "Where shall we look first?"
"All over." And Fibsy darted to a wardrobe and began feeling among the gowns and wraps hanging there. With a touch as light as a pickpocket's he slid his lightning-like fingers through the folds of silk and tulle, and turned back with a disappointed air.
"Frisked the whole pack; nothin' doin'," 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 Fibsy, 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 Fibsy, "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.
"'Scuse me, Mr. Calhoun," cried Fibsy, grasping my hand, "don't touch it! Finger prints, you know!"
"Right, boy!" and Stone nodded, approvingly. "Pick it up, Fibsy."
"Yessir," and taking from his pocket a pair of peculiar shaped tongs, Terence carefully lifted the knife and laid it on the glass-topped dressing table.
"Probly all smudged anyway," he muttered, squinting closely at the knife. "But there's sure some marks on it! Gee, Mr. Stone, there's sumpum 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 are 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 Fibsy. "You pussieve, Mr.Calhoun, the far-famed detective, is already onto her coives!"
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 opine 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, Fibsy?"
"'Way past me. Maybe she was usin' both knives, an' the other one turned the trick, an' when she got up here she seen she had this one still in her grip, an' she slung it in this here chest to hide it. I ain't sure that's the c'reck answer, but it'll do temp'rar'ly. 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, Terence. What is it?"
"Well, it's pretty near eatin' time, an'—aw, pshaw, I jest can't dare to say it."
"Go ahead, old chap, I can't do more than annihilate you."
"Well, I wanna go to the Schuylerses to dinner."
"To dinner!"
"Yes, sir. An' not to the kitchen eats, neither. I wanta set up to their gran' table with their butlerses an' feetmen, an' be a nonnerd guest. Kin I, Mr. Stone? Say, kinni?"
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. Schuyler and you want to further the acquaintance. But it isn't often done that way, my boy."
"Aw, now, don't kid me, Mr. Stone. Either lemme go or shut down on it, one o' the six! But it's most nessary, 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 'em, sir." Fibsy's tone was full of a quiet dignity.
"Very well, I'll ask them," and Stone went away to the telephone.
Fibsy stood, looking raptly 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. Schuyler sends a cordial invitation for all three of us to dine with her."
"Much obliged, I'll be there," said Fibsy, unsmilingly.
That dinner at Ruth Schuyler's 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. Fibsy, 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 is at ease anywhere, and I, too, am adaptable by nature. But the Schuyler sisters were very evidently annoyed at the idea of receiving as an equal the youth whom they regarded as a mere street arab.
Fibsy 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 Misses Schuyler were impressive in their heavy and elaborate mourning, 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 breastknot of valley lilies added to the loveliness, and I allowed my eyes to feast on her fairness. I had thought Ruth was not what could 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.
Fibsy, 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. Schuyler had liked always 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. Schuyler?"
Fibsy's slip of pronunciation was due to his slight embarrassment at his novel surroundings, but he valiantly corrected himself and ignored it.
"I like other gems," Ruth replied, "but Mr. Schuyler 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 flushed 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 grays and mauves were better taste."
"Never mind my peccadilloes," said Ruth, lightly. "Let's talk of something less personal."
"Let's talk about the weather," suggested Fibsy, who was not conducting himself on the seen and not heard plan. "The park is fine now. All full o' red an' gold autumn leaves. Have you noticed it, Mrs. Schuyler?"
"Not especially," and Ruth smiled at him, in appreciation of his conversational help. "I must walk over there to-morrow."
"Yes,'m. An' 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, Fibsy 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 any one else.
He has 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 Fibsy's comical little face drawn with grimaces as he sang a snatch of a popular song.
My heart goes twirly-whirlyWhen I see my pearlie girlie,With her—
"Now, what is that 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 Fibsy's waggish gayety, she rounded out the phrase.
"Yes, that's it," said Fibsy, eagerly, "and
Her teeth like little shining pearls,Oh, she's my queen of all the girls,My little twirly-whirly, pearlie Girlie!"
Ruth and Fibsy 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 Misses Schuyler, and I drifted toward Ruth. She sat down on a sofa and motioned Fibsy 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 tarrying of the men.
After the coffee there were liqueurs. I glanced at Fibsy 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.
"Oo de vee de Dantzic," he remarked, holding up his glass and gazing at the gold flecks in it.
We all smiled at him.
"Your favorite cordial, Terence?" asked Stone, affably.
"Yessir. Don't you love it, Mrs. Schuyler?"
"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 Cream de mint or Benediction?" he persisted.
Ruth laughed outright. "How do you know those names, you funny boy," she said.
"Read 'em on the big signboards," he returned. "They have the biggest billboards in New York for one of these lickures. 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, Terence. They're better for you than liqueurs. Help yourself."
"They are good," and Fibsy obeyed her. "They taste like goin' into a florist's 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 mulled 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 dare say. Lowney tells me the finger prints on the little knife with which Mr. Schuyler was killed are clear and unmistakable, but we have not yet found out whose they are."
"And can you?" said Ruth, anxiously.
"If we find Miss Van Allen," said Stone, "we can at least see if they are her's."
"Pooh!" said Fibsy contemptuously, "why did'n' youse tell me before that you had the claw prints? I kin get Miss Van Allen's all right, all right!"
"How?" said I, for Fibsy had lapsed into the careless speech that meant business.
"Over to her house. Why, they're all over. I've only gotto photygraph some brushes an' things on her dressin' 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.Schuyler, and to prove it would be a certain satisfaction. But what wewant 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 let her off whenever possible."
I knew Tibbets 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. Schuyler's watch?" Ruth asked, a few moments later.
"Yes," I said. "It was just as we supposed. A little vaudeville actress whom Mr. Schuyler had taken out to supper gave it to him, and he stuck it in his watch case, temporarily. Her name is Dotty Fay and she seemed to know little about Mr. Schuyler 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 Vicky Van's."
We had come to discuss the personal matters of Randolph Schuyler 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 Schuyler'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. Schuyler 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 Fibsy asked for some phonograph music, expressing his great delight in hearing a really fine instrument and good records.