Part 12 (1/2)
”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 a.s.sisting my breakfast arrangements. She sugared and creamed my cereal, and, as I dispatched it, she b.u.t.tered 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 bas.e.m.e.nt.
I went down, pa.s.sing 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.