"Yes, for a day or two. Do you think Vicky will come back?"
"I don't know. She'll have to, sooner or later. I tried to make myself sleep in her room last night, but I just couldn't. So I stayed in the music room, I thought—I suppose it was foolish—but I thought maybe she might telephone."
"She'd hardly do that."
"I don't know. It's impossible to say what she might do. Oh, the whole thing is impossible! Think of it, Mr. Calhoun. Where could that girl have gone? Alone, at midnight, in that gorgeous gown, no hat or wrap—"
"How do you know that?"
"I don't—not positively. But if she had put on wraps and gone out by either door she would surely have been seen by some one in the house. I'm just sure she didn't go out by the front street door, for we in the living-room must have noticed her. And she couldn't have gone out by the area door, for there were waiters all about, down here."
We were sitting in the front basement room, a pleasant enough place, evidently a servants' sitting room. Before Mrs. Reeves, on the table, were the remnants of her scarce tasted breakfast. As she had said, the tiny sandwiches and rich salad, which she had procured from the unused stores of the caterer's provision, did seem too closely connected with the tragedy to be appetizing.
"The kitchen is back of this?" I asked.
"Yes, and dumb waiters to the dining-room. I confess I've looked about a bit. I'm not a prying woman—but I felt I was justified."
"You certainly are, Mrs. Reeves," I said, warmly, for she was thoroughly good-hearted, and a staunch friend of Vicky Van. "Have you learned anything illuminating?"