"You're still here?" I said, a little inanely.
"Yes," returned Mrs. Reeves, who looked tired and wan. "I stayed, you know, but I couldn't sleep any. I lay down on the music-room couch, but I only dozed a few minutes at a time. I kept hearing strange sounds or imagining I did, and the police were back and forth till nearly daylight. Downstairs, they were. I didn't bother them, but they knew I was in the house, if—if Vicky should come home."
Her face was wistful and her eyes very sad. I looked my sympathy.
"You liked her, I know," she went on. "But everybody 'most, has turned against her. Since they found the man was Randolph Schuyler, all sympathy is for him and his widow. They all condemn Vicky."
"You can scarcely blame them," I began, but she interrupted,
"I do blame them! They've no right to accuse that girl unheard."
"The waiter—"
"Oh, yes, I know, the waiter! Well, don't let's quarrel about it. I can't stay here much longer, though. I made coffee and got myself some breakfast—but, honest, Mr. Calhoun, it pretty nearly choked me to eat sandwiches that had been made for last night's surprise supper!"
"I should think it would! Didn't any rolls come, or milk, you know?"
"I didn't see any. Well, I'll go home this morning, but I shall telephone up here every little while. The police will stay here, I suppose."