"You wouldn't see Winnie or me there."
"No, but a decent man goes to places where he wouldn't take his women people. Now, let up, Auntie. Trust your good-for-nothing nevvy, and just do all you can to help—by doing nothing."
"I'll help you, Chessy-Cat. I'll do exactly as you tell me, if you'll only let me know about it, and not treat me like a baby," said Winnie, who was wheedlesomely assisting my breakfast arrangements. She sugared and creamed my cereal, and, as I dispatched it, she buttered toast and poured coffee and deftly sliced off the top of a soft-boiled egg.
I managed to eat some of these viands between answers to their rapid-fire volley of questions and at last I made ready to go down town.
"And remember," I said, as I departed, "if a lot of gossippy old hens come around here to-day—or your chicken friends—Winnie, don't tell them a thing. Let 'em get it from the papers, or apply to information, or any old way, but don't you two give out a line of talk! See?"
I kissed them both, and started off.
Of course, I went over to Vicky Van's first. I had been on the proverbial pins and needles to get there ever since I woke to consciousness by reason of the sisterly pounding that brought me from the land of dreams.
The house had an inhabited look, and when I went in, I was greeted by the odor of boiling coffee.
"Come right down here," called Mrs. Reeves from the basement.
I went down, passing the closed dining-room door with a shudder. Two or three policemen were about, in charge of things generally, but none whom I knew. They had been relieved for the present.