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 assumed 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 Saturday, 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.