"What did she wear the night of the crime?" Stone asked, and I told him. Having Win for a sister, I am fairly good at describing women's clothes, and I drew a vivid word picture of Vicky's gold fringed gown.
"Heavenly!" exclaimed Winnie, although she had had me describe the gown to her on the average of twice a day for a week. "I wish I could see it! Some day, Chet, I'm going to have one like it."
"Fringe?" said Stone, curiously, "do women wear fringe nowadays?"
"Oh, yes," I responded. "But it was a long fringe of gilt beads that really formed an overdress to the tulle skirt. Stay, I've a piece of it," and I took out my pocketbook. "See, here it is. I found it caught in those gilded leaves at the lower corner of the mirror frame—that long dressing-mirror."
They all looked at the mirror, which hung flat against the wall; its foliated Florentine frame full of irregular protuberances.
"Of course," said Winnie, nodding her head, "I know just how she stood in front of it, whirling around to see her gown from all sides, like this." Win whirled herself around, before the glass, and succeeded in catching a bit of her own full skirt on the frame.
"You little goose!" I cried, as the fabric tore, "we don't need a demonstration at the expense of your frock!"
Fleming Stone was studying the strand of gold fringe. It was composed of tiny beads, of varying shapes, and had already begun to ravel into shreds.
"I'll keep this," he said, and willy-nilly, I lost my little souvenir of Vicky Van. But, of course, if he considered it evidence, I had to give it up, and the fact of doing so, partly salved my conscience of its guilty feeling at concealing the fact of Vicky's presence in her own house just then.
And, too, I said to myself, Mr. Stone is out to find her. Surely a detective of his calibre can accomplish that without help of an humble layman! So I kept my own counsel, and further search, of the next story, and later, of the basement rooms, gave no hint of Vicky's presence or departure.