"But all that isn't queer, my dear lady," I said. "We all know Vicky Van gads about a lot. I've telephoned her myself twice, and she wasn't here. Once, Julie answered, and once there was no response of any sort."
"Yes, I suppose that's the case. She was going away on a visit to-day, maybe, and so had little food on hand to be disposed of. A good housekeeper would look after that. Of course, it wouldn't be Vicky's doing, but Julie's. That housekeeper is a treasure. She could run a hotel if she wanted to."
"Then, perhaps," I mused, aloud, "Vicky ran away and went to the place, wherever it is, that she expected to visit to-day."
"Oh, I don't know. This is all merely conjecture. And, too, how could she, in that dress? No, she has gone to some friend in town. She must have done so. A hotel wouldn't take her in—why," Mrs. Reeves' voice broke, "you know that waiter said there—there was blood on Vicky's gown!"
"Do you believe that?"
"If we believe him at all, why shouldn't we believe the whole tale? I don't know Vicky Van, you understand, except as a casual friend. I mean, I know nothing of her family, her past, or her personality, except as I've seen her in a friendly way. I like her, thoroughly, but I can't honestly say that I know her."
"Who does?"
"Nobody. All her friends say the same thing. She is lovely and dear, but never confidential, or communicative regarding herself."
"Wherever she went, Julie must be with her," I suggested.
"I don't know. I dare say that is so, but how on earth could two women get out of this house without its being known?"