Part 14 (1/2)
”I doubt it. Anyway, you stand up for Vicky, as far as you can do so honestly. Won't you?”
”I can surely promise that,” I replied, as I started on my errand.
Approaching the Fifth Avenue residence, I looked at the house, which I had been unable to see clearly the night before.
It was large and handsome, but not one of the most modern mansions.
Four stories, it was, and as I glanced up I noticed that all the window shades were down. The floral emblem of death hung at one side of the wide entrance, and as I approached, the door silently swung open.
A footman was in charge, and I was ushered at once to the library where I had been some hours earlier. It was not a cheerful room; the appointments were heavy and somber, though evidently the woods and fabrics were of great value. A shaded electrolier gave a dim light, for the drawn blinds precluded daylight.
A soft step, and Mrs. Schuyler came into the room.
Black garb was not becoming to her. The night before, in her blue house-dress, she had looked almost pretty, but now, in a black gown, without even a bit of relieving white at her throat, she was plain and very pathetic.
Her face was pale and drawn, and her eyes showed dark shadows, as of utter weariness. She greeted me simply and glided to a nearby chair.
”It is kind of you to come, Mr. Calhoun,” and the fine quality of her voice and inflection betokened New England ancestry, or training. ”As you were here last night--you seem more like a friend than a mere business acquaintance.”
”I am very glad, Mrs. Schuyler,” and I spoke sincerely, ”that you look on me like that. Please tell me anything you wish to, and command me in any way I can serve you.”
The speech sounded a little stilted, I knew, but there was something about Ruth Schuyler that called for dignified address. She had the air of bewildered helplessness that always appeals to a man, but she had, too, a look of determination as to one who would do the right thing at any cost of personal unpleasantness.
”It is all so dreadful,” she began, and an insuppressible sob threatened her speech. But she controlled it, and went on. ”There is so much to be gone through with and I am so ignorant of--of law and--you know--of police doings.”
”I understand,” I returned, ”and anything that you can be spared, rest a.s.sured you shall be. But there is much ahead of you that will be hard for you--very hard, and perhaps I can help you get ready for it.”
”Will there be an inquest, and all that?” she whispered the word half fearfully.
”Yes, there must be; though not for several days, probably. You know they can't find Miss Van Allen.”
”No. Where can she be? I don't suppose they will ever find her. Why should she kill my husband? Have you any theory, Mr. Calhoun? How well did you know this--this person?”
”Only fairly well. By which I mean, I have met her some half a dozen times.”
”Always in her own house?”
”Not always. I've attended studio parties where she was present--”
”Oh, Bohemian affairs?”
”Not exactly. Miss Van Allen is a delightful girl, bright and of merry spirits, but in no way fast or of questionable habits.”
”That's what they tell me; but pardon me, if I cannot believe a really nice, correct young woman would have a married man visiting her.”
”But remember, Mrs. Schuyler, Miss Van Allen did not invite Mr.
Schuyler to her house. As near as we can make out, Mr. Steele brought him, without Miss Van Allen's permission. And under an a.s.sumed name.”
A blush of shame stained her face.
”I realize,” she said, ”how that reflects against my husband. Must all this be made public, Mr. Calhoun?”