"He's my boss," the boy said, as if by way of apology for slighting her request.
Fleming Stone opened the parcel and showed two sketches.
"Miss Gale made them," he explained. "I sent Fibsy over there to induce her to give us at least a hint of Miss Van Allen's personal appearance. The boy could wheedle it from her, when I couldn't. See?"
He handed the pictures to Miss Rhoda, for he, too, respected authority, but we all gathered round to look.
They were the merest sketches. A wash of water-color, but they showed merit. As the only one present who knew Vicky Van, I was asked of the truth of their portraiture.
"Fairly good," I said, "yes, more than that. This of Vicky shows the coloring of her face and hair and the general effect of her costume, more than her actual physiognomy. But it is certainly a close enough likeness to make her recognizable if you find her."
And this was true. Ariadne had caught the sidelong glance of Vicky Van's dark-lashed eyes, and the curve of her scarlet lips. The coloring was perfect, just Vicky's vivid tints, and the dark hair, looped over her ears, was as she always wore it. Ariadne had drawn her in the gown she had worn that fatal evening, and the women eagerly scrutinized the gorgeous costume.
"No wonder those long strands of fringe caught in that scraggly mirror frame!" exclaimed Winnie, who never missed a point.
"Right," said Stone. "If she whirled around as you did, Miss Calhoun, it's a wonder she didn't spoil her whole gown."
The pose and the figure were not exactly Vicky's. Ariadne wasn't much on catching a likeness or a physical effect. But the color and atmosphere were fine, and I told this to Stone, who agreed that it was a decided help in the search.