"You think they had never met before?"

"I'm sure they had not. They looked at each other with the conventional politeness of strangers, I know Miss Van Allen well, and she is not one to dissemble or pretend. I am sure she had never laid eyes on that man before. She simply _couldn't_ have killed him!"

Ariadne's further evidence amounted to nothing, nor did that of several other of the party guests who were called on.

Except Mrs. Reeves. She knew more of Vicky's home life than any of the rest of us, but even she knew nothing of the girl's origin.

She had first met her at one of Miss Gale's studio parties, and had taken a fancy to her at once.

"Where did _you_ first meet her, Miss Gale," the coroner interrupted to ask.

"She came to my studio to look at my pictures," was the reply. "She admired them, and bought one. She was so pleasant and so interested in my work that she came two or three times, and then I invited her to one of my little studio affairs. She quickly made friends, and she invited us to her house. I went there first about two years ago."

"So did I," Mrs. Reeves resumed. "And since then, I have been there frequently, and every time I saw the girl I liked her better. But she was always a bit of a mystery. I confess I tried at times, to learn something of her previous life. But she adroitly evaded my questions, and cleverly changed the subject. I think, however, from chance hints she let drop, that her home was somewhere in the Middle West."

"An indefinite term," observed Coroner Fenn.

"It's all I know."

"Where did Miss Van Allen go on her frequent absences from her home?"

"That I don't know, either. Often she'd be away a week, and on her return would tell of a gay house party down on Long Island or a week-end trip up Westchester way, but I don't remember any definite place she visited."

"I do," piped up Ariadne. "She often goes to Greenwich, Connecticut, and to Bronxville. I've heard her tell of these trips. She has a wide circle of acquaintances and, of course, she's a favorite with all who know her."

"I have a piece of evidence," resumed Mrs. Reeves, "which I daresay I ought to exhibit. It is a letter from Miss Van Allen, which I received only this morning."

This caused a sensation. A letter from Vicky Van! Just received! I found myself trembling in my shoes. And I asked myself why. Was I afraid the girl would be caught? Did I want to shield a felon? And I had to admit to myself that I did. I wasn't in love with Vicky Van, but I had a tremendous interest in her, and I didn't want that little lone, helpless person haled before a court of justice. Vicky did seem terribly alone. Hosts of friends she had, but no one who was in any way responsible for her, or in a position to help her. Well, if she ever returned, voluntarily or perforce, she would find a friend and champion in one Chester Calhoun, of that I was certain!

Mrs. Reeves handed her letter over to the coroner, and he read it out.

It ran:

My dear Mrs. Reeves: You have always been such a good friend to me that I'm writing you just a line. You are everything that is good and kind, and now I'm going to ask you as a final favor to forget Vicky Van at once and forever. I am going away and I shall never return. Don't think of me any more hardly than you must, but if you can keep any loving little memory of the hours we spent together, I want you to do so. And as a remembrance, I want you to have my little electric coupe. It is in Rennard's garage, and I have written him to turn it over to you. I shall miss our happy times together, but--I can never come back. Do not worry about me, I am safe.

And I am your affectionate Vicky Van.

"You are sure this is from Miss Van Allen?" asked Fenn.

"Oh, yes," replied Mrs. Reeves. "There's no mistaking that writing."

Nor was there. I knew Vicky's penmanship, and it was most peculiar.

Never have I seen such a hand. Angular, slightly backhanded, and full of character, it would be difficult to imitate it, and, too, no one would have any reason to forge that letter to Mrs. Reeves. She had verified Vicky's statement, and found that a letter to the garage owner had instructed him to give up the car to Mrs. Reeves, and he had already done so, that very morning.

The letters had both been mailed in New York the night before, the postmark showing that they were mailed in the district that included Vicky's residence.

Was she, then, even now in hiding near her home? Or, had she sent the letters to be mailed by some one else? By Julie, perhaps, who, I felt sure, was with her mistress, wherever that might be.

My leaping thoughts took in all this, and by degrees the slower going coroner, put it in words.

Lowney, the detective, bristled with interest. A clue, he had, he thought, but what a clue! Two letters posted in the city. What did they show of the whereabouts of the missing girl?

Lowney scrutinized the one to Mrs. Reeves. Ordinary paper, such as might be bought in any stationery or department store, no monogram or initial on it, nor was there any maker's name under the flap.

But a dozen people present testified to Vicky's handwriting, and the coroner eagerly took possession of the letter.

Sherlock Holmes, I thought to myself, would read that letter, look at it through his good old lens, smell it, and then walk out, and return in a half hour, with Vicky Van in tow!

But for my part, I could see nothing illuminating in that plain paper and envelope, and the letter in the well-known penmanship.

All I gathered was, that wherever Vicky was, she was not only safe but comfortable. The tenor of the note breathed leisure and composure.

Clearly, she was not breathlessly hurrying from one place to another, or vigilantly eluding pursuit. She was at ease, with opportunity to indulge in thoughtful kindness to a friend, and to write at length about herself.

At length, yes, but with no hint of her hiding-place nor any clue to it. Poor little Vicky! She seemed so alone--and yet--how did I know?

She may have gone to friends or--somehow I hated to think that she had any man who was her legal--or even willing protector.

Yet she said she was safe, and her letter showed no fear of the future. And then again I was stabbed by the thought that perhaps there was no earthly future for Vicky Van. I didn't want her to kill herself--I didn't want her to be found and arrested--what did I want?

I wasn't sure in my own mind, save that I wanted her safety above all else. I suppose I believed her guilty--I could believe nothing else, but even so, I didn't want her brought to bay.

I gave my own testimony, which was all true, and all frank, except that I said nothing of my nocturnal visit to Vicky's house or of our telephone conversation. If my conscience smote me I combated it with my chivalry, which would not allow me to betray a woman into the hands of the law.

The later witnesses, who were mostly the working people whom Vicky employed by the day, told nothing of her or of her home life. They all spoke of her as a kind lady to work for, though, as a rule, they had not seen her, but had been engaged, directed and paid by the maid, Julie.

It seemed to be tacitly a.s.sumed that wherever Vicky was Julie was with her. I had had this information from Vicky herself, but others took it for granted, in the absence of any reason to think the contrary.

The whole day's session, to my mind, achieved little of useful information. Mrs. Reeves' letter proved conclusively that Vicky was aware of the search being made for her, and showed her determination not to be found. It was Sat.u.r.day, and when the inquest was adjourned until Monday morning, I couldn't help feeling that it might as well have been permanently adjourned, for all the further conclusions it would lead to.

I went home at last, thrilling with the thought that that night I was to get Vicky's mail from her box and hide it where she had directed. I secretly hoped she might be in the house herself, waiting for it, but scarcely dared believe this would be the case.

CHAPTER XI

A NOTE FROM VICKY

Nor was it. I had secured a latch-key to the house, from the police, who were willing enough for me to search for possible clues, as I had told them I would do.

At their wits' end to locate Vicky Van, they welcomed my help and felt that as a friend of hers, I might learn more than a disinterested policeman could.

So, well after midnight, watching my chance when the patrolman had just pa.s.sed on his regular round, I went across the street.

Easily I opened the mailbox and extracted a quant.i.ty of letters.

Quietly, then, I opened the house door and went in.

I had provided myself with a pocket flashlight, as I didn't want to illuminate the house, and I went at once to the music room, to perform my errand.

How strange it seemed! The lovely room, with dainty white and gold furnishings, reminded me so forcibly of the bewitching girl who owned it all. A thousand questions rose in my mind. What would become of that bijou residence? The bric-a-brac and pictures, the rugs and furniture, while not magnificent, were of the best, and many of them costly. The great Chinese vase, into which I was to drop the letters was a gem of its kind, though not anything a connoisseur would covet.