"Can't I go?" asked Winnie, who had come in recently, "I'm just crazy to see that house. You don't mind my going, do you, Ruth?"
"No, indeed, child. I'm perfectly willing."
Mr. Stone raised no objection, so Winnie went with us.
It was nearly five o'clock, full daylight, though the dusk was just beginning to fall. We went round to Vicky Van's and I opened the door for the party to enter.
The house had begun to show disuse. There was dust on the shining surfaces of the furniture and on the polished floors. The clocks had all stopped and the musty chill of a closed house was in the atmosphere.
"Ugh!" cried Winnie, "what a creepy feeling! And this house is too pretty to be so neglected! Why, it's a darling house. Look at that heavenly color scheme!"
Winnie had darted into the living-room, with its rose and gray appointments, and we all followed her.
"Don't touch anything, Miss Calhoun," cautioned Stone, and Win contented herself with gazing about, her hands clasped behind her.
The Schuyler sisters sniffed, and though they said little, they conveyed the idea that to their minds the bijou residence savored of reprehensible frivolity.
Fleming Stone lived up to his reputation as a detective, and scrutinized everything with quick, comprehensive glances. We went through the long living-room, and into the dining-room, whose pale green and silver again enchanted Winnie.