"Ches-ter Cal-houn! Get up this minute! There's a reporter downstairs! A reporter!"

My sleepy eyes opened to find Winnie pounding my shoulder as it humped beneath the blanket.

"Hey? What?" I grunted, trying to collect my perceptions.

"A reporter!" If Winnie had said a Bengal tiger, she couldn't have looked more terrified.

"Great Scott! Win—I remember! Clear out, I'll be down in a minute."

I dressed in record time and went downstairs in three leaps.

In the library, I found Aunt Lucy, wearing an expression that she might have shown if the garbage man had asked her to a dance.

But Winnie was eagerly drinking in the story poured forth by the said reporter, who was quite evidently enjoying his audience.

"Oh, Chet, this is Mr. Bemis of The Meteor. He's telling us all about the—you know—what happened."

Winnie was too timid to say the word murder, and I was sorry she had to hear the awful tale from any one but myself. However, there was no help for it now, and I joined the group and did all I could to bring Aunt Lucy's eyebrows and nose down to their accustomed levels.

But it was an awful story, make the best of it, and the truth had to be told.

"It is appalling," conceded Aunt Lucy, at length, "but the most regrettable circumstance, to my mind, is your connection with it all, Chester."

"Now, Auntie, have a little heart for poor Mrs. Schuyler, and those old lady sisters. Also for the man himself—"

"Oh, I have, Chet. I'm not inhuman. But those things are in the papers every day, and while one feels a general sympathy, it can't be personal if one doesn't know the people. But, for you to be mixed up in such matters—"

"I wasn't mixed up in it, Aunt Lucy, except as I chose to mix myself. And I've no doubt I should have gotten into it anyway. Mr. Bradbury will have a lot to do with it, I'm sure. I'm no better than he to mix in."

"In a business way, yes. But you were there socially—where a murder was committed—"

Aunt Lucy could have shown no more horror of it all, if I had been the convicted criminal.

"And, I'm glad I was!" I cried, losing patience a little. "If I can be of any help to the Schuyler people or to Miss Van Allen, I shall be willing to do all I can.

"But Miss Van Allen is the—the murderer!" and Aunt Lucy whispered the word.

"Don't say that!" I cried sharply. "You don't know it at all, and there's no reason to condemn the girl—"

I paused. Bemis was taking in my every word with a canny understanding of what I said, and also of what I didn't say.

"Where do your suspicions tend, Mr. Calhoun?" he said smoothly.

"Frankly, Mr. Bemis, I don't know. I am an acquaintance of Miss Van Allen and I cannot reconcile the idea of crime with her happy, gentle nature. Nor can I see any reason to suspect the waiter who first told of the matter. But might not some person, some enemy of Mr. Schuyler, have been secreted in the house—"

"A plausible theory," agreed Bemis, "even an obvious one, but almost no chance of it. I've seen the caterer's people, and they were in charge of the basement rooms and the dining-room all the evening. Unless it were one of the guests at the party, I think no intruder could have gotten in."

"Well," I returned, uneasily, for I wished he would go, "it isn't up to us to invent theories or to defend them. I will answer your necessary questions, but pardon me, if I remind you that I am a busy man and I haven't yet had my breakfast."

Bemis took the hint, and after a string of definite and pertinent questions, he left.

Winnie tried to detain him, but my curt courtesy made it difficult for him to linger.

"Oh, Chessy," cried my sister, as soon as Bemis had gone, "it's awful,
I know, but isn't it exciting?"

"Hush, Winnie," reproved Aunt Lucy. "A girl of your age should know nothing of these things, and I want you to put it out of your mind. You can be of no help, and I do not want your nerves disturbed by the harrowing details."

"That's all right, Aunt Lucy," I put in, "but this is going to be a celebrated case, and Winnie can't be kept in ignorance of its developments. Now be a good sort, Auntie—accept the inevitable. Try to realize that I must do what seems to me my duty, and if that brings us more or less into the limelight of publicity, it is a pity, but it can't be helped."

"I agree to all that, Chester, dear. But you are so mixed in it socially. Why did you ever get into that set?"

"It isn't a bad set, Aunt Lu. It isn't a fast set, by any means."

"You wouldn't see Winnie or me there."

"No, but a decent man goes to places where he wouldn't take his women people. Now, let up, Auntie. Trust your good-for-nothing nevvy, and just do all you can to help—by doing nothing."

"I'll help you, Chessy-Cat. I'll do exactly as you tell me, if you'll only let me know about it, and not treat me like a baby," said Winnie, who was wheedlesomely assisting my breakfast arrangements. She sugared and creamed my cereal, and, as I dispatched it, she buttered toast and poured coffee and deftly sliced off the top of a soft-boiled egg.

I managed to eat some of these viands between answers to their rapid-fire volley of questions and at last I made ready to go down town.

"And remember," I said, as I departed, "if a lot of gossippy old hens come around here to-day—or your chicken friends—Winnie, don't tell them a thing. Let 'em get it from the papers, or apply to information, or any old way, but don't you two give out a line of talk! See?"

I kissed them both, and started off.

Of course, I went over to Vicky Van's first. I had been on the proverbial pins and needles to get there ever since I woke to consciousness by reason of the sisterly pounding that brought me from the land of dreams.

The house had an inhabited look, and when I went in, I was greeted by the odor of boiling coffee.

"Come right down here," called Mrs. Reeves from the basement.

I went down, passing the closed dining-room door with a shudder. Two or three policemen were about, in charge of things generally, but none whom I knew. They had been relieved for the present.

"You're still here?" I said, a little inanely.

"Yes," returned Mrs. Reeves, who looked tired and wan. "I stayed, you know, but I couldn't sleep any. I lay down on the music-room couch, but I only dozed a few minutes at a time. I kept hearing strange sounds or imagining I did, and the police were back and forth till nearly daylight. Downstairs, they were. I didn't bother them, but they knew I was in the house, if—if Vicky should come home."

Her face was wistful and her eyes very sad. I looked my sympathy.

"You liked her, I know," she went on. "But everybody 'most, has turned against her. Since they found the man was Randolph Schuyler, all sympathy is for him and his widow. They all condemn Vicky."

"You can scarcely blame them," I began, but she interrupted,

"I do blame them! They've no right to accuse that girl unheard."

"The waiter—"

"Oh, yes, I know, the waiter! Well, don't let's quarrel about it. I can't stay here much longer, though. I made coffee and got myself some breakfast—but, honest, Mr. Calhoun, it pretty nearly choked me to eat sandwiches that had been made for last night's surprise supper!"

"I should think it would! Didn't any rolls come, or milk, you know?"

"I didn't see any. Well, I'll go home this morning, but I shall telephone up here every little while. The police will stay here, I suppose."

"Yes, for a day or two. Do you think Vicky will come back?"

"I don't know. She'll have to, sooner or later. I tried to make myself sleep in her room last night, but I just couldn't. So I stayed in the music room, I thought—I suppose it was foolish—but I thought maybe she might telephone."

"She'd hardly do that."

"I don't know. It's impossible to say what she might do. Oh, the whole thing is impossible! Think of it, Mr. Calhoun. Where could that girl have gone? Alone, at midnight, in that gorgeous gown, no hat or wrap—"

"How do you know that?"

"I don't—not positively. But if she had put on wraps and gone out by either door she would surely have been seen by some one in the house. I'm just sure she didn't go out by the front street door, for we in the living-room must have noticed her. And she couldn't have gone out by the area door, for there were waiters all about, down here."

We were sitting in the front basement room, a pleasant enough place, evidently a servants' sitting room. Before Mrs. Reeves, on the table, were the remnants of her scarce tasted breakfast. As she had said, the tiny sandwiches and rich salad, which she had procured from the unused stores of the caterer's provision, did seem too closely connected with the tragedy to be appetizing.

"The kitchen is back of this?" I asked.

"Yes, and dumb waiters to the dining-room. I confess I've looked about a bit. I'm not a prying woman—but I felt I was justified."

"You certainly are, Mrs. Reeves," I said, warmly, for she was thoroughly good-hearted, and a staunch friend of Vicky Van. "Have you learned anything illuminating?"

"No; but things are queer."

"Queer, how?"

"Well, you wouldn't understand. A man couldn't. But it's this way. Lots of potted meats and jars of jam and cans of tea and coffee and cocoa in the pantry, but no fresh meat or green vegetables about. No butter in the icebox, and no eggs or bacon."

"Well, what does that imply? I'm no housekeeper, I admit."

"It looks to me as if Vicky was leaving this morning—I mean as if she had expected to go away to-day, and so had no stuff on hand to spoil."

"Perhaps this is her market day."

"No; it's queer, that's what it is. You know sometimes Vicky does go away for days at a time."

"Hasn't she a right to?"

"Of course she has. I'm thinking it out. Where does she go? And wherever it is, that's where she is now!"

Mrs. Reeves' triumphant air seemed to settle the question.

"But all that isn't queer, my dear lady," I said. "We all know Vicky Van gads about a lot. I've telephoned her myself twice, and she wasn't here. Once, Julie answered, and once there was no response of any sort."

"Yes, I suppose that's the case. She was going away on a visit to-day, maybe, and so had little food on hand to be disposed of. A good housekeeper would look after that. Of course, it wouldn't be Vicky's doing, but Julie's. That housekeeper is a treasure. She could run a hotel if she wanted to."

"Then, perhaps," I mused, aloud, "Vicky ran away and went to the place, wherever it is, that she expected to visit to-day."

"Oh, I don't know. This is all merely conjecture. And, too, how could she, in that dress? No, she has gone to some friend in town. She must have done so. A hotel wouldn't take her in—why," Mrs. Reeves' voice broke, "you know that waiter said there—there was blood on Vicky's gown!"

"Do you believe that?"

"If we believe him at all, why shouldn't we believe the whole tale? I don't know Vicky Van, you understand, except as a casual friend. I mean, I know nothing of her family, her past, or her personality, except as I've seen her in a friendly way. I like her, thoroughly, but I can't honestly say that I know her."

"Who does?"

"Nobody. All her friends say the same thing. She is lovely and dear, but never confidential, or communicative regarding herself."

"Wherever she went, Julie must be with her," I suggested.

"I don't know. I dare say that is so, but how on earth could two women get out of this house without its being known?"

"And yet, they did. Whether alone or together, they both got away last night. You don't think they're still concealed in the house?"

"Oh, no, of course not; after the search we made."

"I can't help thinking they'll turn up to-day. Julie, anyway. Why, Miss Van Allen must come back or send back for her valuables. I saw jewelry and money in the dressing-room."

"Yes; but, of course, they're safe enough. They're all in care of the police."

We were interrupted by the entrance of a policeman and a woman who had come to work.

"She says," the policeman addressed Mrs. Reeves, "that she was expected here to-day to clean. Now, we can't let her disturb things much, but she'd better wash up a little, and throw away some of the supper stuff that won't keep."

Everybody seemed to look to Mrs. Reeves as a sort of proxy housekeeper, and I wondered what they would have done without her. Though I suppose they would have managed.

"Yes, indeed," was her glad response. "Let her tidy up these breakfast things I've used, and there's some cups and plates in the kitchen, for I gave those poor policemen some food 'long 'bout three o'clock this morning. And she can throw out the melted ice cream, it's no good to anybody, and it surely isn't evidence!"

I determined to ask the working-woman some questions, but the police forestalled me.

Ferrall came down and joined us, and spoke to her at once.

"Good morning, Mrs. Flaherty. Don't you do anything now, but just what you're told to do. And first, tell us a thing or two. How often do you come here? I've seen you in and out, now and again."

"Yes, I do be comin' whin I'm sint for; not of a reg'lar day. Maybe wanst a week, maybe of'ner. Thin agin, not for a fortnight."

"Just as I said," declared Mrs. Reeves. "Vicky often goes away for days at a time."

"Shure she does that. Miss Van Allen is here to-day an' gone to-morrow, but Miss Julie she looks after me wurruk, so she does."

"She engages you when you are needed?" I asked.

"Yes, sir. They's a tillyphone in me husband's shop, an' if anny wan calls me, he lets me know."

"When did they tell you to come here to-day?"

"'Twas yisterday, sir. Miss Julie, she sinds wurrud for me to come this marnin' to clane, as they do be havin' a party last night. Ach, that this thrubble should come!"

"There, now, Mrs. Flaherty, never mind your personal feelings. We're in a hurry." Ferrall was busy making notes of the information he was getting, and I could well understand, that any side-light on Vicky's home life was of importance. So I tarried to listen.

"How long have you worked for Miss Van Allen?"

"A matther av a year or more."

"You clean the rooms upstairs, sometimes?"

"All over the house. Manny's the time I've shwept an' vacuumed Miss Van Allen's own bedroom an' boodore. An' likewise the music room an' parlure an' all. Yis, sor, I'm here frekint."

"What other servants does Miss Van Allen employ?"

"Nobody that lives in, 'ceptin' Miss Julie. But there's the laundry woman, as comes—though more often the wash goes out. Thin, there's a chore boy, as runs arrants; an' sometimes a sewin' woman; an' often the caterer man's dagoes. Yis, an' a boy, a Buttons you know, to open the dure for, say, an afternoon party. You see, Miss Van Allen is off visitin' so much, she don't want steady help."

"Where does she visit?"

"That I dunno. But go, she does, an' I'm thinkin' it's good times she has. For she comes back, chipper an' merry an' glad to see her friends—an' thin, all of a suddint, up an' off agin."

I knew that was Vicky Van's habit. All that the woman said corroborated my idea of the little butterfly's frivolous life. So, why should she keep permanent servants if she was at home only half the time? I knew the troubles Aunt Lucy had with her menials, and I approved of Vicky's wisdom.

"And that explains the empty icebox," Mrs. Reeves was saying, nodding her head in satisfaction. "Vicky meant to go off to-day, after the house was put in order, and she didn't want a lot of food left to spoil."

"Yis, mum," agreed Mrs. Flaherty. "Shall I wash thim dishes now, mum?"

And she was allowed to set to work.