Part 32 (1/2)

Fibsy glanced at her and then at Stone, and handed a parcel to the latter.

”He's my boss,” the boy said, as if by way of apology for slighting her request.

Fleming Stone opened the parcel and showed two sketches.

”Miss Gale made them,” he explained. ”I sent Fibsy over there to induce her to give us at least a hint of Miss Van Allen's personal appearance. The boy could wheedle it from her, when I couldn't. See?”

He handed the pictures to Miss Rhoda, for he, too, respected authority, but we all gathered round to look.

They were the merest sketches. A wash of water-color, but they showed merit. As the only one present who knew Vicky Van, I was asked of the truth of their portraiture.

”Fairly good,” I said, ”yes, more than that. This of Vicky shows the coloring of her face and hair and the general effect of her costume, more than her actual physiognomy. But it is certainly a close enough likeness to make her recognizable if you find her.”

And this was true. Ariadne had caught the sidelong glance of Vicky Van's dark-lashed eyes, and the curve of her scarlet lips. The coloring was perfect, just Vicky's vivid tints, and the dark hair, looped over her ears, was as she always wore it. Ariadne had drawn her in the gown she had worn that fatal evening, and the women eagerly scrutinized the gorgeous costume.

”No wonder those long strands of fringe caught in that scraggly mirror frame!” exclaimed Winnie, who never missed a point.

”Right,” said Stone. ”If she whirled around as you did, Miss Calhoun, it's a wonder she didn't spoil her whole gown.”

The pose and the figure were not exactly Vicky's. Ariadne wasn't much on catching a likeness or a physical effect. But the color and atmosphere were fine, and I told this to Stone, who agreed that it was a decided help in the search.

Julie's portrait was the same. Not a real likeness of the woman, but an impressionist transcript of her salient points. The gray gown and white ap.r.o.n, the thick-rimmed gla.s.ses, the parted lips, showing slightly protruding teeth, the plainly parted brown hair, all were the real Julie; and yet, except for these accessories I'm not sure I could have recognized the subject of the sketch. However, as I told Stone, it certainly was a helpful indication of the sort of woman he was to look for, and even in disguise, the physical characteristics must show.

The detective was positive that wherever Vicky Van and Julie were, or whatever they were doing, they were in all probability disguised, and thoroughly so, or they must have been discovered ere this.

To my amus.e.m.e.nt, Fibsy and Ruth were holding a tete-a-tete conversation. The kind-hearted woman had, doubtless, felt sorry for the boy's shyness, and had drawn him into chat to put him at his ease.

She had succeeded, too, for he was animated, and had lost his self-consciousness under the charm of her smile.

”And I'll bet your birthday comes in the spring,” he was saying, as I caught the tenor of their talk.

”It does,” said Ruth, looking surprised. ”How did you guess?”

”'Cause you're just like a little spring flower--a white crocus or a bit of arbutus.”

And then, noting my attention, the boy was covered with confusion and blushed to the tips of his ears. He rose from where he sat, and shuffled awkwardly around the great room, devoting exaggerated attention to some books in the gla.s.sed cases, and twirling his fingers in acute embarra.s.sment.

”You scared him away,” chided Ruth, under her breath, as our glances met. ”He and I were getting positively chummy.”

”Why was he talking of your birthday? I asked.

”I don't know, I'm sure. He said I was born in the spring, because I'm like a flower! Really, that child will grow up a poet, if he doesn't look out!”

”You are like a flower,” I murmured back. ”And I'm glad your birthday is in spring. I mean to celebrate it!”

And then I thought of poor Vicky Van's birthday, so tragically ended, and I quickly changed the subject.

Armed with the pictures, Fleming Stone and his young a.s.sistant spent the next day on a still hunt.

And in the evening Stone came over to see me.

”A little quiet confab,” he said, as we secluded ourselves in my sitting-room and closed the door, ”I've been to a score of places, and invariably they recognize Miss Van Allen and her maid, but all say they've not seen her since the tragedy. I went to shops, offices, the bank and places where she would be likely to need to go. Also, her friends' houses. But nothing doing. The shops have heard from her, in the way of paid bills, checks and such matters, but I learned absolutely nothing that throws any light on her whereabouts. Now, Mr.