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.
"I want my address book," she went on, hurriedly. "I've looked all over for it, and it's gone. Did the detective take it?"
"I think he did," I replied, remembering Lowney's search.
"Can't you get it back for me?"
"Look here, child, what do you think I am? A magician?"
"No, but I thought you could manage somehow to get it," her voice showed the adorable petulance that distinguished Vicky Van; "and then, you could send it to me—"
"Where?" I cried, eagerly. "Where shall I address you?"
"I can't tell you that. But you can bring it here and leave it in the
Chinese jar, and I will get it."
"How do you come in and go out of this house without being seen?" I demanded. "By the area door?"