Vicky Van Part 25

Aside from my personal interest, I hated to think I should never know just how she did get away. For now, I had no hope that Fleming Stone or anyone else could ever find the girl. She was too canny to be taken, after her successful concealment so far.

I went downstairs after a time, but I said nothing of my letter to Aunt Lucy or Win.

They were eagerly discussing the latest news, and Aunt Lucy was saying, "Yes, I've heard of Mr. Stone, and they do say he's a marvel.

I hope he'll find the girl, if only to learn the mystery of her disappearance."

"Oh, he'll find her," a.s.sured Winnie, "I've heard a lot about him over there and he's a wizard! But I think he'll have a long chase."

"Meantime, what becomes of the house?" queried Aunt Lucy. "What does, Chet? Can anyone go in it who likes?"

"No," I returned, a little shortly, for I foresaw Aunt Lucy had that absurd feminine desire to pry into another person's home. "It's in charge of the police, and they won't let anyone in, without some very good reason."

"Couldn't you get in?"

"I suppose I might," I admitted unwillingly, "if I had any business there."

"Oh, do get up some business, Chet," begged Winnie, "and get the keys and let Auntie and me go with you! Oh, do! I'd love to see that girl's things!"

"Winnie, you're positively lowbred to show such curiosity!" I exclaimed, angrily--the more so, that I had the house key in my pocket at that moment. But I was glad I had not told them of Vicky Van's letter to me!

I waited until well past midnight, and then, after seeing the post patrol pa.s.s Vicky's door, I softly went out of my own house, and across the street.

I walked calmly up the steps of Vicky's home, and sadly put the latchkey in the door--for the last time. I felt as if I were performing funeral rites, and I entered and closed the door behind me, softly, as one does in the house of death.

I went up the stairs, in the gloom. It was not black darkness, for a partly raised blind gave me a glimmer of light from the street. Into the music room I went, and by my pocket flashlight, I took the lid from the Chinese jar. But there was no parcel inside!

Amazed, I threw the light down into the big vase, but it was utterly empty.

There was no use looking elsewhere for the parcel--I knew Vicky well enough to know that she would do exactly as she had said. Or, since she hadn't, I was sure that she would not have left that parcel in any other hiding-place.

I put the flashlight back in my pocket, and started downstairs.

Slowly I descended, for I still felt a little uncertain what to do.

Should I wait for a short time, or go back home and return again later?

I reached the foot of the stairs, and concluded to go home, and then think out my next step.

As I pa.s.sed the living-room door, I heard a low voice whisper my name.

I turned sharply. In the doorway, I could dimly discern a cloaked figure. "Hus.h.!.+" she said, softly, and beckoned to me.

It was Vicky Van!

CHAPTER XIII

FLEMING STONE

Vicky had said "Hus.h.!.+" but it was an unnecessary precaution, for I was too stunned to articulate. I peered at her in the darkness and then, unable to control my desire for certainty I flashed my little pocket light on her for an instant.

"Don't!" she whispered, putting her hands up before her face.

But I had seen. It was really Vicky Van, her smooth black hair looped over her ears, her scarlet mouth, and soft pink cheeks, flushed with excitement of the moment, and her long dark lashes, which suddenly fell beneath the blinding flare of the light, all were those of the runaway girl.

"Don't talk," she said, hastily, "let me do the talking. I want you to help me, will you?"

"Of course, I will," and all sense of law and justice fled before the wave of pity and solicitude for the trembling suppliant who thus appealed to me.

Her voice was indistinct and a little hoa.r.s.e, as if she was laboring under great mental and nerve strain, and she was so alone, so unprotected, that I couldn't help promising any a.s.sistance in my power.

"There wasn't any parcel in the big vase," I said, in a low voice, as she seemed to hesitate about going on with her explanation.

"No, here it is," and she handed me a little box, "Just put it away safely for the present. And now, this is what I want to ask of you.

Don't let them engage that Mr. Stone, to hunt me down, will you?"

"Why, how can I help it?"

"Oh, can't you?" and she sounded so disappointed; "I hoped you could persuade Mrs. Schuyler not to have him."

"But Mrs. Schuyler doesn't want him, either!" I exclaimed. "It's those two sisters who insist on getting him. And I never could turn their wills, try as I might."

"Why doesn't Mrs. Schuyler want him?"

"Oh, I'm not sure that she really objects to the plan, but, I mean she didn't seem as anxious as the other two. You see, little girl, the widow of Randolph Schuyler isn't so bitter against you as the two sisters are."

"That's good of her," and Vicky's voice was wistful. "But, you know I must remain in hiding--"

"I thought you were going to leave New York?"

"I am. And at once. But if that Mr. Stone gets on my trail, he'll find me, as sure as fate. And so I risked this interview to try to persuade you to use your influence against his coming."

"And I'll do that," I returned, heartily. "But I feel that I ought to tell you that I doubt my power to dissuade the Schuyler sisters from their determination. And, too, how did you know they thought of getting him?"

"Oh, I see all the papers, you know, and in one of them a reporter gave a personal interview with the Schuyler people, and they hinted at getting that man."

Vicky sighed wearily, as if her last hope was gone. I was full of questions I wanted to ask her, but it seemed intrusive and unkind to quiz her. And yet, one thing I felt I must say. I must ask her what she knew of the actual crime.

"Tell me," I blurted out, "who did kill Randolph Schuyler?"

Again I felt her tremble, and her voice quivered as she whispered back, "It must have been some enemy of his, who got in at the window, or something like that."

My heart fell. This was the sort of thing she would say if she were herself the guilty one. I had hoped for a more sincere, even if despairing, answer.

"But I must send you away," she breathed in my ear. We were standing just inside the room, and Vicky held her hand on a chair-back for support. There was the faintest light from the street, enough for us to distinguish one another's forms, but no more. Vicky wore a street gown of some sort, and a long cloak. On her head was a small hat, and a black net veil. This was tied so tightly that it interfered a little with her speech, I thought, though when I had looked at her face by my flashlight, the veil had not been of sufficient thickness to conceal her features at all. I've often wondered why women wear those uncomfortable things. She kept pulling it away from her lips as she talked.