"Now," said Fleming Stone, after he had learned all he desired from the Schuyler household, "now, if you please, I would like to go over the Van Allen house. You have the keys, Mr. Calhoun?"

"I have a latchkey to the street door." I replied, "the rooms are not locked."

I don't know why exactly, but I hated to have him go through Vicky Van's house. Of course, it must have been because she had begged me not to let Stone get into the case at all. But I hadn't been able to prevent that, the two Schuyler sisters being determined to have him. And I had no desire to impede justice or stand in the way of law and order, but, somehow or other, I felt the invasion of Vicky's home would bring about trouble for the girl, and my mind was filled with vague foreboding.

"We will go with you," announced Miss Rhoda. "I've wanted to see that house from the first. You'll go, Ruth?"

"Oh, no," and Ruth Schuyler shrank at the idea. "I've no wish to see the place where my husband was killed! How could you think of it? If I could do any good by going—"

"No, Mrs. Schuyler," said Fleming Stone, "you could do no good, and I quite understand why you would rather not go. The Misses Schuyler and Mr. Calhoun will accompany me, and we will start at once."

"Can't I go?" asked Winnie, who had come in recently, "I'm just crazy to see that house. You don't mind my going, do you, Ruth?"

"No, indeed, child. I'm perfectly willing."

Mr. Stone raised no objection, so Winnie went with us.

It was nearly five o'clock, full daylight, though the dusk was just beginning to fall. We went round to Vicky Van's and I opened the door for the party to enter.

The house had begun to show disuse. There was dust on the shining surfaces of the furniture and on the polished floors. The clocks had all stopped and the musty chill of a closed house was in the atmosphere.

"Ugh!" cried Winnie, "what a creepy feeling! And this house is too pretty to be so neglected! Why, it's a darling house. Look at that heavenly color scheme!"

Winnie had darted into the living-room, with its rose and gray appointments, and we all followed her.

"Don't touch anything, Miss Calhoun," cautioned Stone, and Win contented herself with gazing about, her hands clasped behind her.

The Schuyler sisters sniffed, and though they said little, they conveyed the idea that to their minds the bijou residence savored of reprehensible frivolity.

Fleming Stone lived up to his reputation as a detective, and scrutinized everything with quick, comprehensive glances. We went through the long living-room, and into the dining-room, whose pale green and silver again enchanted Winnie.

"The walls are exquisite," Stone agreed, looking closely at the panels of silk brocade, framed with a silver tracery.

"If walls have ears, they must burn at your praise," I said, in an effort to speak lightly, for Stone's face had an ominous look, as if he were learning grave truths.

"Walls not only have ears, they have tongues," he returned. "These walls have already told me much of Miss Van Allen's character."

"Oh, how?" cried Winnie, "do tell us how you deduce and all that!"

I looked hastily at Stone, thinking he might be annoyed by Winnie's volatile speech.

But he said kindly, "To the trained eye, Miss Calhoun, much is apparent that escapes the casual observer. But you can understand that the taste displayed in the wall decoration, shows a refined and cultured nature. A woman of the adventuress type would prefer more garish display. Of course, I am generalizing, but there is much to bear me out. Then, I see, by certain tiny marks and cracks, that these walls have lately been done over, and that they were also redecorated another time not long before. This proves that Miss Van Allen has money enough to gratify her whims and she chooses to spend it in satisfying her aesthetic preferences. Further, the walls have been carefully cared for, showing an interested and capable housekeeperly instinct and traits of extreme orderliness and tidiness. Cleverness, even, for here, you see, is a place, where a bit of the plaster has been defaced by a knock or scratch, and it has been delicately painted over with a little pale green paint which matches exactly. It is not the work of a professional decorator, so reason tells me that probably Miss Van Allen herself remedied the defect."

"Good gracious!" exclaimed Winnie, "I can see all that myself, now you tell me, but I never should have thought of it! Tell me more."

"Then the pictures, which are so well chosen and placed, that they seem part of the walls, are, as you notice, all figure pieces. There are no landscapes. This, of course, means that Miss Van Allen is not distinctly a nature lover, but prefers humanity and society. This argues for the joy of living and the appreciation of mental pleasures and occupations. No devotee of nature would have failed to have pictures of flowers or harmonizing landscapes on these walls. So, you see, to be edified by the tongues of walls, you must not only listen to them but understand their language."

And then Stone began taking in the rest of the dining-room's contents. The table, hastily cleared by the caterer's men, was empty of the china and glass which they had supplied, but still retained the candlesticks and epergnes that were Vicky Van's own. These were of plated silver, not sterling, which fact Stone noted. The lace-trimmed linen, however, was of the finest and most elaborate sort.

"An unholy waste of money!" declared Rhoda Schuyler, looking at the marvellous monogram of V. V. A. embroidered on the napkins.

But I gazed sadly at the table, only partially dismantled, which had been so gaily decked for Vicky's birthday supper.

Scanning the sideboard, Stone remarked the absence of the small carving knife. I told him I, too, had observed that, and that I had made search for it.

"Did you ask the caterer's people if they took it by mistake?" said the detective.

"No," I admitted, ashamed that I hadn't thought of it, and I promised to do so.

As Stone stood, silently contemplating the place where Randolph Schuyler had met his death, I stepped out into the hall. I had no conscious reason for doing so, but I did, and chancing to glance toward the stairs, I with difficulty repressed an exclamation.

For half-way up the staircase, I saw Vicky Van!

I was sure it was no hallucination, I positively saw her! She was leaning over the banister, listening to what Stone was saying. Suddenly, even as I looked, she ran upstairs and disappeared.

Was she safe? Could she escape? Perhaps by a back staircase, or could she manage to elude us and slip away somehow?

Then I was conscience-stricken. Was I conniving at the escape of a guilty person? Did I want to do this? I didn't know. Something told me I must tell Stone of her presence, and yet something else made it impossible for me to do so.

I turned back to the dining-room, and Miss Sarah was saying, "That's
the spot, then, that's where Randolph was killed by that awful woman!
Mr. Stone you must get her! An eye for an eye—a life for a life!
She must pay the penalty of her guilt!"

Winnie was listening, and tears stood in her eyes. Like Ruth Schuyler, from whom she doubtless took a cue, Win wasn't so ready to condemn Vicky Van unheard, as the two sisters were. She looked steadily at Fleming Stone, as if expecting him to produce Vicky then and there, and I quivered with the thought of what would happen if he knew that even at that moment Vicky was under the same roof with ourselves!

But Stone completed his survey of the dining-room, and as a matter of course, started next up the stairs. I pushed ahead a little, in my eagerness to precede him, but a vague desire to protect Vicky urged me on. I stood in the upper hall as the rest came up, and I imagined that Stone gave me a curious glance as he noted my evident embarrassment.

But Winnie dashed into the music room, and the Schuyler sisters quickly followed. Trust a woman to feel and show curiosity about her neighbor's home!

Again Stone examined the walls, but the immaculate white and gold sides of the music room said nothing intelligible to me, and if they spoke to him he did not divulge the message. The women exclaimed at the beautiful room, and, as Stone's examination here was short, we all filed back to Vicky's bedroom.

I heard no sound of her, and I breathed more freely, as we did not find her in bedroom or in the boudoir beyond. She had, then, succeeded in getting away, and trusted to me not to betray her presence there.

The boudoir or dressing-room, all pink satin and white enameled wicker called forth new exclamations from Winnie, and even Rhoda Schuyler expressed a grudging admiration.

"It is beautiful," she conceded. "I wish Ruth had come, after all. She loves this sort of furniture. Don't you remember, Sarah, she wanted Randolph to do up her dressing-room in wicker?"

"Yes, but he didn't like it, he said it was gim-crackery. And the
Circassian walnut of Ruth's room is much handsomer."

"Of course it is. Ruth has a charming suite. Oh, do look at the dresses!"

Fleming Stone had flung open a wardrobe door, and the costumes disclosed, though not numerous, were of beautiful coloring and design. Winnie, unable to resist the temptation, fingered them lovingly, and called my attention to certain wonderful confections.

"What did she wear the night of the crime?" Stone asked, and I told him. Having Win for a sister, I am fairly good at describing women's clothes, and I drew a vivid word picture of Vicky's gold fringed gown.

"Heavenly!" exclaimed Winnie, although she had had me describe the gown to her on the average of twice a day for a week. "I wish I could see it! Some day, Chet, I'm going to have one like it."

"Fringe?" said Stone, curiously, "do women wear fringe nowadays?"

"Oh, yes," I responded. "But it was a long fringe of gilt beads that really formed an overdress to the tulle skirt. Stay, I've a piece of it," and I took out my pocketbook. "See, here it is. I found it caught in those gilded leaves at the lower corner of the mirror frame—that long dressing-mirror."

They all looked at the mirror, which hung flat against the wall; its foliated Florentine frame full of irregular protuberances.

"Of course," said Winnie, nodding her head, "I know just how she stood in front of it, whirling around to see her gown from all sides, like this." Win whirled herself around, before the glass, and succeeded in catching a bit of her own full skirt on the frame.

"You little goose!" I cried, as the fabric tore, "we don't need a demonstration at the expense of your frock!"

Fleming Stone was studying the strand of gold fringe. It was composed of tiny beads, of varying shapes, and had already begun to ravel into shreds.

"I'll keep this," he said, and willy-nilly, I lost my little souvenir of Vicky Van. But, of course, if he considered it evidence, I had to give it up, and the fact of doing so, partly salved my conscience of its guilty feeling at concealing the fact of Vicky's presence in her own house just then.

And, too, I said to myself, Mr. Stone is out to find her. Surely a detective of his calibre can accomplish that without help of an humble layman! So I kept my own counsel, and further search, of the next story, and later, of the basement rooms, gave no hint of Vicky's presence or departure.

Indeed, I began to wonder if I had really seen her. Could she have been so clearly in my mind, that I visualized her in a moment of clairvoyance? My reason rebelled at this, for I knew I saw her, as well as I knew I was alive. She had on the same little hat in which I had last seen her. She had on no cloak, and her tailor-made street dress was of a dark cloth. I couldn't be sure how she got away, for the basement door we found bolted on the inside, but she must have warily evaded and eluded us and slipped here and there as we pursued our course through the house, and then have gone out by the front door when we were, say, on the upper floors.

Returning to Vicky's boudoir, where her little writing-desk was,
Fleming Stone began to run over the letters and papers therein.

It was locked, but he picked the flimsy fastening and calmly took up the task with his usual quick-moving, efficient manner.

I stayed with him, and the three women wandered back over the house again. He ran through letters with glancing quickness, flipped over sheafs of bills, and examined pens, ink and paper.

"There's so much that's characteristic about a desk," he said, as he observed the penwiper, stamps, pin-tray, and especially the pencils. "Indeed, I feel now that I know Miss Van Allen as well, if not better than you do yourself, Mr. Calhoun."

"In that case, then, you can't believe her guilty," I flashed back, for the very atmosphere of the dear little room made me more than ever Vicky's friend.

"But you see," and he spoke a bit sadly, "what I know of her is the real woman. I can't be deceived by her wiles and coquetries. I see only the actual traces of her actual self."

I knew what he meant, and there was some truth in it. For Vicky was a mystery, and I was not by any means sure, that she didn't hoodwink us when she chose to. Much as I liked and admired the girl, I was forced to believe she was not altogether disingenuous. And she was clever enough to hoodwink anybody. But if Stone's deductions were to be depended on, they were doubtless true evidence.

"Is she guilty?" I sighed.

"I can't say that, yet, but I've found nothing that absolutely precludes her guilt. On the contrary, I've found things, which if she is guilty, will go far toward proving it."

This sounded a bit enigmatical, but Stone was so serious, that I grasped his general meaning and let it go at that.

"I mean," he said, divining my thoughts, "that things may or may not be evidence according to the guilt or innocence of the suspect. If you find a little boy in the pantry beside an empty jampot, you suspect him of stealing jam. Now, if lots of other circumstances prove that child did take the jam, the empty pot is evidence. But, if circumstances develop that convince you the child did not have any jam whatever, that day, then the jampot is no evidence at all."

"And you have found empty jampots?" I asked.

"I have. But, so far, I'm not sure that they are condemnatory evidence. Though, in justice to my own work, I must add, that they have every appearance of being so."

"You already like Vicky Van, then," I said, quickly, moved to do so, by a certain note of regret in his voice.

"No man could help liking a woman who possesses her traits. She has delightful taste and tastes. She is most charitable, her accounts show sums wisely expended on worthy charities. And letters from friends prove her a truly loyal and lovable character."

"Such a girl couldn't kill a man!" I broke out.

"Don't say that. There is no one incapable of crime. But such a nature would require very strong provocation and desperate conditions. These granted, it is by no means impossible. Now, I am through for to-day, but, if you please I will keep the key of the house. As the case is now in my hands, you will not object?"

"No," I said, a little reluctantly. For suppose Vicky should give me another commission or ask me to perform another errand in the house.

"You have a transparent face, Mr. Calhoun," and Fleming Stone smiled quizzically. "Why do you want to keep the key?"

"My aunt is most desirous of seeing this house," I deliberately prevaricated, "and I thought—"

But I didn't deceive the astute detective. "No, that isn't it," he said, quietly. "I'm not sure, but I think you are in touch with Miss Van Allen."

"And if I am?" I flared up.

"Very well," he returned, "it is, as you imply, none of my business. But I want to know your attitude, and if it is antagonistic to my work, I am sorry, but I will conduct my course accordingly."

"Mr. Stone," I confessed, "I am not antagonistic, but I do know a little about Miss Van Allen's movements that I haven't told. I cannot see that it would assist you in any way to know it—"

"That's enough," and Fleming Stone spoke heartily. "Your assurance of that is sufficient. Now, are we working together?"

I hesitated. Then I suddenly thought of Ruth Schuyler. I owed her a business fealty, and somehow I liked to feel that I also owed her a personal allegiance, and both these demanded my efforts to avenge the death of her husband, irrespective of where the blow might fall.

So I said, honestly, "We are, Mr. Stone. I will help you, if I can, and if at any time I think my withheld information will help you, I will make it known. Is that satisfactory?"

"Entirely so," and the handshake that Stone gave me was like a signed and sealed bond, to which I tacitly but none the less truthfully subscribed.