"The Affair at Flower Acres," "Anybody But Anne," "The Mystery of the Sycamore," "Raspberry Jam," "The Vanishing of Betty Varian," "Spooky Hollow," "Feathers Left Around," etc....

Victoria Van Allen was the name she signed to her letters and to her cheques, but Vicky Van, as her friends called her, was signed all over her captivating personality, from the top of her dainty, tossing head to the tips of her dainty, dancing feet. I liked her from the first, and if her "small and earlies" were said to be so called because they were timed by the small and early numerals on the clock dial, and if her "little" bridge games kept in active circulation a goodly share of our country

It was nearly midnight when Steele came, and with him was a man I had never seen before, and whom I assumed to be the Mr. Somers I had heard about. And it was. As Steele entered, he cast his eye around for Vicky, and saw her at the bridge table down at the end of the room. Her back was toward us, and she was so absorbed in the game she did not look round, if, indeed, she heard the noise of their arrival. The two men stopped near the group I was with and Steele introduced Mr. Somers. A little cur

Doctor Remson's police call had been imperative, and Inspector Mason came in with two men. "What's this? What's wrong here?" the big burly inspector said, as he faced the few of us who had remained. "Come in here, inspector," said the doctor, from the dining-room door. And from that moment the whole aspect of the house seemed to change. No longer a gay little bijou residence, it became a court of justice. One of the men was stationed at the street door and one at the area door below. Headquarter

Detective Lowney, who had come with the coroner, had said little but had listened to all. Occasionally he would dart from the room, and return a few moments later, scribbling in his notebook. He was an alert little man, with beady black eyes and a stubby black mustache. "I want a few words with that caterer's man," he said, suddenly, "and then they'd better clear away this supper business and go home." We all turned to look at the table. It stood in the end of the dining-room that was back of th

As for me, I began to collect my senses after the shock of learning the true identity of the dead man. Though I had never met him, Randolph Schuyler was a client and friend of my partner, Charles Bradbury, and I suddenly felt a sort of personal responsibility of action. For one thing, I disliked the idea of Mr. Schuyler's wife and family receiving the first tidings of the tragedy from the police. It seemed to me a friend ought to break the news, if possible. I said as much to Coroner Fenn, and h

"Ches-ter Cal-houn! Get up this minute! There's a reporter downstairs! A reporter!" My sleepy eyes opened to find Winnie pounding my shoulder as it humped beneath the blanket. "Hey? What?" I grunted, trying to collect my perceptions. "A reporter! " If Winnie had said a Bengal tiger, she couldn't have looked more terrified. "Great Scott! Win—I remember! Clear out, I'll be down in a minute." I dressed in record time and went downstairs in three leaps. In the library, I found Aunt Lucy, wearing an

There were many calls on Vicky Van's telephone that morning. It seemed to me that the bell rang almost continually. The police people answered it, and one time, I was surprised to learn that the call was for me. I took up the receiver and heard Mr. Bradbury's voice. "I called up your home," he said, "and your sister told me to try this number. Now, look here, Calhoun, I wish you'd go to see Mrs. Schuyler. I've talked with her over the telephone, and she asked me to come up there, but I've got th

"It's a queer case," said Mr. Bradbury to me, when I reached the office that afternoon. "Of course, I know Randolph Schuyler was no saint, but I never supposed he was deep enough in any affair to have a woman kill him. And so near his own home, too! He might have had the decency to choose his lady acquaintances in more remote sections of the city." "That isn't the queerest part to me," I returned. "What I can't understand is, why that girl stabbed him. She didn't know him—" "Now, now, Calhoun, s

I stood staring at the closed door. What did it mean? Why was Vicky in there and why wouldn't she let me come in? Then, as I collected my wits, I laughed at myself. I knew why she was there—to get her mail. Doubtless there were important letters that she must have, and she had dared discovery to come at dead of night to get them. The patrolman was not in sight. She had looked out for this, of course. It was the merest chance that I had seen her, otherwise she would have escaped all observation.

The inquest was in progress. In the coroner's courtroom inquiry was being made in an endeavor to discover who was responsible for the death of Randolph Schuyler. The funeral of the millionaire had taken place, and the will had been read, and now the public awaited news of the action of the police in placing the crime and producing the criminal. The case had become a celebrated one, not only because of the prominence of the victim, but because of the mystery surrounding the young woman suspected

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 passed on his regular round, I went across the street. Easily I opened the mailbox and extracted a quantity of le

Next morning at breakfast, there was but one topic of conversation. Indeed, little else had been talked of for days but the Schuyler case and all its side issues. Winnie held forth at length on the martyrdom Ruth Schuyler had suffered because of the cruelty of her late husband. "He wasn't really ugly, you know," explained Win, "and I don't say she's glad he's dead. But he thwarted her in every little way that she wanted to enjoy herself. They had a box at the opera, and a big country house and a

Vicky had said "Hush!" 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 sud

"Now," said Fleming Stone, after he had learned all he desired from the Schuyler household, "now, if you please, I would like to go over the Van Allen house. You have the keys, Mr. Calhoun?" "I have a latchkey to the street door." I replied, "the rooms are not locked." I don't know why exactly, but I hated to have him go through Vicky Van's house. Of course, it must have been because she had begged me not to let Stone get into the case at all. But I hadn't been able to prevent that, the two Schu

Next morning as I started for my office, I found myself combating a strong impulse to call in at Ruth Schuyler's. I had no errand there, and I knew that if she required my services she would summon me. It was no longer incumbent on me to try to unravel the murder mystery. Fleming Stone had that matter in charge, and his master-mind needed no assistance from me. And yet, I wanted to stop at the Fifth Avenue house, if only for a moment, to reassure myself of Ruth's well-being. Though above me in s

It was Sunday afternoon, and we were in conclave in the Schuyler library. Fleming Stone was summing up his results of the past few days and, though it was evident he had done all that mortal man could do, yet he had no hint or clue as to where Vicky Van might be. And, he held, that nothing else was of consequence compared to this knowledge. She must be found, and whether that could be done quickly, by search or by chance, or whether it would take a long time of waiting, he could not say. He felt

After that night Fleming Stone became more desperately in earnest in his search for Vicky. It seemed as if the sight of her, the realization that she was a real woman and not a myth, had whetted his eagerness to discover her hiding place and bring her to book. He established himself in her house, and both he and Fibsy practically lived there, going out for their meals or picnicking in the basement room. This room became his headquarters, and a plain clothes man was on duty whenever Stone and Fib

That dinner at Ruth Schuyler's was memorable. And, yet, it was in no way markedly unusual. The service was perfect, as might be expected in that well-ordered household, and the guests were well behaved. Fibsy, thanks to Fleming Stone's thoughtful kindness, was arrayed in the proper dinner garb of a schoolboy, and his immaculate linen and correct jacket seemed to invest him in a mantle of politeness that sat well on his youthful buoyancy and enthusiasm. I glanced round the table. It was a strange

"You are absolutely crazy!" I said, laughing, though the laugh choked in my throat, as I looked at Stone. "You see, Fibsy, you're gone dotty over this thing, and you're running round in circles. I know both Mrs. Schuyler and Miss Van Allen, and they've nothing in common. There couldn't be two people more dissimilar." "That's just it—that's how I know," wailed the boy. "That's how I first caught on. You see—oh, tell him, Mr. Stone." "The boy is right," said Stone, slowly. "And the—" "He can't be

Next morning I was conscious of but one desire, to get to Ruth and tell her of my love and faith in her, and assure her of my protection and assistance whatever happened. Whatever happened! The thought struck me like a knell. What could happen but her arrest and trial? But as I went out of my own door—I left the house early, for I couldn't face Aunt Lucy and Winnie—I suddenly decided it would be better to see Stone first and learn if anything had transpired since I left him. I rang the bell at V