"Only the police," I answered, "unless Miss Van Allen has returned."
"Were—were there many people there—last night?"
Clearly, she wanted to know more details of the occasion, but didn't like to show curiosity.
"Yes," I informed her, "quite a number. It was Miss Van Allen's birthday, and so, a sort of little celebration."
"Her birthday? How old was she?"
"I've no idea. I should guess about twenty-two or twenty-three."
"Is she—is—what does she look like?"
The eternal feminine wanted to ask "is she pretty?" but Ruth Schuyler's dignity scarcely permitted the question. I noticed, too, that the sisters listened attentively for my reply.
"Yes," I said, truthfully, "she is pretty. She is small, with very black hair, and large, dark gray eyes. She is exceedingly chic and up-to-date as to costumes, and is of vivacious and charming manner."
"Humph!" sniffed Miss Rhoda, "an actress?"