Julie's portrait was the same. Not a real likeness of the woman, but an impressionist transcript of her salient points. The gray gown and white apron, the thick-rimmed glasses, the parted lips, showing slightly protruding teeth, the plainly parted brown hair, all were the real Julie; and yet, except for these accessories I'm not sure I could have recognized the subject of the sketch. However, as I told Stone, it certainly was a helpful indication of the sort of woman he was to look for, and even in disguise, the physical characteristics must show.
The detective was positive that wherever Vicky Van and Julie were, or whatever they were doing, they were in all probability disguised, and thoroughly so, or they must have been discovered ere this.
To my amusement, Fibsy and Ruth were holding a tete-a-tete conversation. The kind-hearted woman had, doubtless, felt sorry for the boy's shyness, and had drawn him into chat to put him at his ease.
She had succeeded, too, for he was animated, and had lost his self-consciousness under the charm of her smile.
"And I'll bet your birthday comes in the spring," he was saying, as I caught the tenor of their talk.
"It does," said Ruth, looking surprised. "How did you guess?"
"'Cause you're just like a little spring flower—a white crocus or a bit of arbutus."
And then, noting my attention, the boy was covered with confusion and blushed to the tips of his ears. He rose from where he sat, and shuffled awkwardly around the great room, devoting exaggerated attention to some books in the glassed cases, and twirling his fingers in acute embarrassment.
"You scared him away," chided Ruth, under her breath, as our glances met. "He and I were getting positively chummy."
"Why was he talking of your birthday? I asked.