Part 28 (2/2)

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 embarra.s.sment.

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 Circa.s.sian 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 gla.s.s, 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 w.i.l.l.y-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 bas.e.m.e.nt 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 bas.e.m.e.nt 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.

<script>