Part 28 (1/2)

”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 gla.s.s 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!