"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 pass 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.