Part 11 (1/2)

”Never, sir. I know nothing of the houses on the side blocks.” I winced at this. ”Of course, I know the people who come to this house, but there is among them no Miss Van Allen.”

”Rather not!” I thought to myself. And then I sighed at the memory of Vicky Van. Had she killed this millionaire? And if so, why?

I was sure Vicky had never met Randolph Schuyler before that evening.

I had seen their meeting, and it was too surely the glance of stranger to stranger that had pa.s.sed between them, to make a previous acquaintance possible. Vicky had been charming to him, as she always was to every one, but she showed no special interest, and if she did really kill him, it was some unguessable motive that prompted the deed.

I thought it over. Schuyler, at the club, dined and wined, had perhaps heard Norman Steele extol the charms of Vicky Van. Interested, he had asked to be taken to Vicky's house, but, as it was so near his own, a sense of precaution led him to adopt another name.

Then the inexplicable sequel!

And the mysterious disappearance of Vicky herself.

Though, of course, the girl would return. As Mrs. Reeves had said, doubtless she had witnessed the crime, and, scared out of her wits, had run away. Her return would clear up the matter.

Then the waiter's story?

Well, there was much to be done. And, as I suddenly bethought me, it was time I, myself went home!

As I pa.s.sed Vicky Van's house, on my way home, I saw lights pretty much all over it, and was strongly tempted to go in. But common sense told me I needed rest, and not only did I have many matters to attend to on the morrow, but I had to tell the story to Aunt Lucy and Winnie!

That, of itself, would require some thought and tactful management, for I was not willing to have them condemn Vicky Van entirely, and yet, I could think of no argument to put forth for the girl's innocence.

Time alone must tell.

CHAPTER VI

VICKY'S WAYS

”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.