Next morning at breakfast, there was but one topic of conversation. Indeed, little else had been talked of for days but the Schuyler case and all its side issues.

Winnie held forth at length on the martyrdom Ruth Schuyler had suffered because of the cruelty of her late husband.

"He wasn't really ugly, you know," explained Win, "and I don't say she's glad he's dead. But he thwarted her in every little way that she wanted to enjoy herself. They had a box at the opera, and a big country house and all that, but he wouldn't let her go to matinees or have a motor of her own or buy anything until he had passed judgment on it. She even had to submit her costume designs to him, and if he approved the dressmaker made them up. And he wouldn't let her have fashionable clothes. They had to be plain and of rich heavy materials, such as the sisters wear. Mr. Schuyler was under the thumb of those two old maids, and Rhoda, especially, put him up to all sorts of schemes to bother Ruth."

"Do you call her Ruth?" I asked, in surprise.

"Yes, she told me I might. She's lovely to me, and I'm so glad to do all I can for her. Honest, Chet, she lived an awful life with that man."

"I'd like to see her," said Aunt Lucy. "All you've said about her,
Winnie, makes me a bit curious."

"So you shall, Auntie, some time. She's a real friend of mine now, and even after Edith Crowell goes there as secretary, she says I must often go to see her as her friend."

"She's charming," I declared. "Every time I see her I'm more impressed with her gentle dignity. And I don't know how she can be so decent to those two old women."

"Nor I," agreed Win, as Aunt Lucy asked, "Is she pretty?"

"Is she, Winnie?" I said.

"Well, she is and she isn't. She's so colorless, you know. Her hair is that flat ashy blonde, and she's so pale always. Then her eyes and lashes are so light, and—well, ineffective. But her expression is so sweet, and when once in a while she laughs outright, she's very attractive. And she's such a thoroughbred. She never errs in taste or judgment. She knows just what to reply to all the queer letters of condolence that come to her, and just how to talk to the people who call. And that's another thing. She hasn't any friends of her own age. She knows only the people who belong to the most exclusive set, and they're nearly all the age of the old sisters. But Mrs. Schuyler is lovely to them. And in her soft pretty black gowns she looks a whole lot better than she ever did in the ones she wore while he was alive. I've seen them in her wardrobe, and I've seen her try on some that she was going to give away, and they're sights! Elegant, you know, but not the thing for her. Now, that she can select her own, she has beauties."

"She certainly must be glad, then, to be freed from such a tyrant," said Aunt Lucy.

"Now don't you think that!" insisted Winnie, earnestly. "She may feel, so, 'way down in her deepest heart, but she won't admit it, even to herself. And, of course, no matter how much she didn't love him, she wouldn't want him taken off that way! No, she's perfectly all right, and she mourns that man just as sincerely as any woman could mourn a man who didn't understand her."

I looked at Win in amazement. Little sister was growing up, it seemed. Well, the experience would do her no harm. Ruth Schuyler's influence could work only for good, and a taste of real life would give a wider outlook than Win could get at home.

I went down to the coroner's courtroom. The inquest was proceeding in its usual discursive way, and I sat down to listen for a while. The coroner was hearing reports from detectives who had interviewed the market men and shopkeepers where Vicky Van had bought wares.

It was just what might be expected from any householder's record. Vicky had always paid her bills promptly, usually by check on a well-known bank. Sometimes, if the bills were small they were paid in cash. In such case Miss Van Allen herself or the maid brought the money; if checks, they were sent by mail. The garage man reported a similar state of affairs. His monthly bills were promptly paid, and Miss Van Allen had found no fault with his service. She was away from home frequently, but when at home, she used her motor car often and was kind to the chauffeur who drove her. This chauffeur told of taking her to the shops, to the theatre, to friends' houses and to picture galleries—but had never been directed to any place where a lady might not go.

The bank people said that Miss Van Allen had had an account with them for years, but as their depositors were entitled to confidential dealings they would say little more. They stated, however, that Miss Van Allen was a most desirable patron and never overdrew her account or made trouble of any sort.

There was nothing to be gleaned from this kind of testimony. We all knew that Vicky was a good citizen and all this was merely corroboration. What was wanted was some hint of her present whereabouts.

Lowney had tried to get at this by the use of an address book he had found in Vicky Van's desk. He had telephoned or called on many of the people whose addresses were in the book, but all said over and over what we already knew.

Personally, I felt sure that Vicky was staying with some friend not far from her own house. It could well be, that somebody cared enough for the girl to hide her from the authorities. This, however, argued her guilty, for otherwise, a true friend would persuade her that the wiser course would be to disclose herself to the public.

However, nothing transpired to bear out my opinion, and as the list of witnesses dwindled, no progress was made toward a solution of the mystery. And so, when at last, an open verdict was returned, with no mention of Vicky's name, I was decidedly relieved, but I didn't see how it could have been otherwise.

I dropped in at the Schuyler house on my way home. I was beginning to feel on a very friendly footing there, and, partly owing to Winnie's graphic powers of narration, I took an increasing interest in Ruth Schuyler.

As Win had said, she looked charming, although pathetic in her black robes. She permitted herself a touch of white at the turned-in throat, and a white flower was tucked in her bodice. A contrast, indeed, to the severe garb of the spinster sisters, who looked like allegorical figures of hopeless gloom.

But their manner was more of militant revenge, and, having heard the verdict of the coroner's jury, they were ready to take up the case themselves.

"Come in, Mr. Calhoun," they called out, as I entered the library, "you're just the man we want to see. Now, that the coroner has finished his task, we will take the matter up. Mr. Lowney, I suppose, will continue the search for Miss Van Allen, but we fear he will not be successful. So, we have determined to send for the great detective, Fleming Stone."

"Stone!" I cried, "why, he won't work with the police."

"Then he can work without them," declared Rhoda, with asperity. "I've heard wonderful stories of that man's success, and we're going to engage him at once."

"He's very expensive," I began.

"No matter. We're going to find our brother's murderer if it takes every penny of our fortune."

"What do you think of this plan, Mrs. Schuyler?" I asked.

"I've not been consulted," she said, with a slight smile. "Since Mr. Randolph's sisters choose to adopt it, I have no reason to object. I know nothing of Mr. Stone, but if he is really a great detective, he will not condemn that girl unheard. And if she is proved guilty, of course the claims of justice must be met. Do you know him, Mr. Calhoun?"

"Not personally. I've often heard of him, and he's a wonder. If you want to find Miss Van Allen, you can't do better than to get him on the trail. If he can't find her, nobody can."

"That's what I say," put in Sarah. "And if he doesn't find her, at least we've the satisfaction of knowing we've done all we could."

"We thought of offering a reward for information of Miss Van Allen," added Rhoda, "but if we're going to get Mr. Stone, wouldn't it be better to consult him about that?"

"I think it would," I judged.

Just then Winnie came into the room. She had been writing notes, and she held a lot of unopened letters in her hand.

"Oh, Ruth," she cried, "what do you think! Here's the mail, Jepson just gave it to me, and there's a letter for you from Miss Van Allen!"

"What!" cried everybody at once.

"Yes," declared Winnie, "I know the hand, it's the same as was on that letter to Mr. Schuyler. It's such a queer hand, you can't forget it."

She handed all the letters to Ruth, the one she referred to on top.

Mrs. Schuyler turned pale as she looked at the envelope. I glanced at it, too, and without doubt, it was Vicky Van's writing.

It had been mailed in New York that same morning, and delivered just now, about five o'clock.

"You open it, Mr. Calhoun," said Ruth, as if she shrank from the task.

I took it gravely, for it seemed to me to portend trouble for little
Vicky. Was she giving herself up, or what?

Win handed me a letter-opener, and I slit the envelope.

As they breathlessly awaited my words, I read:

To Mrs. Randolph Schuyler: Dear Madam: It is useless to look for me. To-day I am leaving New York forever. The mystery of Mr. Schuyler's death will never be solved, the truth never learned. I alone know the secret and it will die with me. You may employ detectives from now till doomsday but you will discover nothing. So give up the search, for you will never find Victoria Van Allen.

There was a pause as I finished reading. Myself, I was thrilled by a certain phrase in the letter. Vicky said, "the secret will die with me." Again, I felt that she was intending to bring about her own death, and that speedily. Would we know it if she did? I was thinking deeply, when Miss Rhoda, spoke:

"I believe that girl means to kill herself, and I should think she would!"

"Why do you think that?" and Ruth looked up with a startled face.

"It sounds so, and it would be the natural outcome of her remorse at her dreadful deed."

"I think she must be guilty," said Winnie, her dear little countenance drawn with grief, as she studied the letter for herself.

None of us said much more. We all were stunned in a way, by this unexpected development, and had to readjust our theories.

"Well," Miss Rhoda said, decidedly, "I shall consult Mr. Stone, anyway. I've written him, and though I've not mailed the letter yet, I shall send it off to-night. Then when he comes to talk it over we can see what he says and abide by his judgment."

"That's a good idea, Rhoda," and Ruth Schuyler nodded assentingly; "I, too, want justice, and if Fleming Stone thinks he can find Miss Van Allen, let him do so."

It was six o'clock then, and Win and I went home, leaving the Schuyler ladies to their own discussions.

Ruth Schuyler's hand lingered a moment in mine, as I bade her adieu, and she said, wistfully, "I wish you would tell me just what you think we had better do. I am so unaccustomed to judging for myself in any important matter."

"I think it is wise to get Mr. Stone," I returned. "In any case it can do no harm, you know."

"No, I suppose not," and she gave me one of her rare smiles of appreciation. "I am glad you are looking after us, instead of Mr. Bradbury," she said further, and I sincerely responded that I was glad, too.

Another surprise awaited me at home. On the hall table lay my own mail, and as I picked it up, and ran the letters over, there was one from Vicky Van.

I hastily concealed it from Winnie's sharp eyes, for I had no notion what it might divulge, and hurried with it up to my own room.

Impatiently I tore it open and raced through its contents.

Dear Mr. Calhoun:

Thank you deeply for attending to my errand. Owing to your kindness I received the letters I wanted. Now, will you do me one last favor? Come again to the house tonight, and take a small parcel which you will find in the Chinese jar in the music room. Keep this for me and if I do not ask you for it within a year, destroy it unopened. I wish I could be more frank with you, you have proved yourself such a staunch friend, but I cannot control circumstances and so I must bear my fate. I do not know what Mrs. Schuyler will think of it, but I have written her a letter. When you see her, try to make her realize it is useless to hunt for me. Since I can keep hidden for this length of time, my retreat is not likely to be discovered. And now, my kindest of friends, good-bye.

Vicky Van.

I stood, staring at the letter. I read it through a dozen times. Of course, I would do her bidding, but my heart rebelled at the finality of the lines. I knew I would never hear from Vicky Van again. As she said, since we hadn't traced her yet, we never could.

I wondered where she could possibly be. And Julie, too. Somebody was shielding them both. They couldn't be disguised or anything of that sort, for they had left the house at dead of night, without luggage or—and I hadn't thought of this before—without money! How could they have found shelter, save in some friend's house?

Of course, Vicky could have snatched up a purse as she ran. Perhaps that was what she flew upstairs for. And then, maybe, she went down the back stairs—but no, the waiters must have seen her that way. And Luigi was in the front hall a moment after Vicky disappeared.

Aside from my personal interest, I hated to think I should never know just how she did get away. For now, I had no hope that Fleming Stone or anyone else could ever find the girl. She was too canny to be taken, after her successful concealment so far.

I went downstairs after a time, but I said nothing of my letter to
Aunt Lucy or Win.

They were eagerly discussing the latest news, and Aunt Lucy was saying, "Yes, I've heard of Mr. Stone, and they do say he's a marvel. I hope he'll find the girl, if only to learn the mystery of her disappearance."

"Oh, he'll find her," assured Winnie, "I've heard a lot about him over there and he's a wizard! But I think he'll have a long chase."

"Meantime, what becomes of the house?" queried Aunt Lucy. "What does,
Chet? Can anyone go in it who likes?"

"No," I returned, a little shortly, for I foresaw Aunt Lucy had that absurd feminine desire to pry into another person's home. "It's in charge of the police, and they won't let anyone in, without some very good reason."

"Couldn't you get in?"

"I suppose I might," I admitted unwillingly, "if I had any business there."

"Oh, do get up some business, Chet," begged Winnie, "and get the keys and let Auntie and me go with you! Oh, do! I'd love to see that girl's things!"

"Winnie, you're positively lowbred to show such curiosity!" I exclaimed, angrily—the more so, that I had the house key in my pocket at that moment. But I was glad I had not told them of Vicky Van's letter to me!

I waited until well past midnight, and then, after seeing the post patrol pass Vicky's door, I softly went out of my own house, and across the street.

I walked calmly up the steps of Vicky's home, and sadly put the latchkey in the door—for the last time. I felt as if I were performing funeral rites, and I entered and closed the door behind me, softly, as one does in the house of death.

I went up the stairs, in the gloom. It was not black darkness, for a partly raised blind gave me a glimmer of light from the street. Into the music room I went, and by my pocket flashlight, I took the lid from the Chinese jar. But there was no parcel inside!

Amazed, I threw the light down into the big vase, but it was utterly empty.

There was no use looking elsewhere for the parcel—I knew Vicky well enough to know that she would do exactly as she had said. Or, since she hadn't, I was sure that she would not have left that parcel in any other hiding-place.

I put the flashlight back in my pocket, and started downstairs.

Slowly I descended, for I still felt a little uncertain what to do. Should I wait for a short time, or go back home and return again later?

I reached the foot of the stairs, and concluded to go home, and then think out my next step.

As I passed the living-room door, I heard a low voice whisper my name.

I turned sharply. In the doorway, I could dimly discern a cloaked figure. "Hush!" she said, softly, and beckoned to me.

It was Vicky Van!