Vicky Van. Wells Carolyn

the waiter's story?

      Well, there was much to be done. And, as I suddenly bethought me, it was time I, myself went home!

      As I passed Vicky Van's house, on my way home, I saw lights pretty much all over it, and was strongly tempted to go in. But common sense told me I needed rest, and not only did I have many matters to attend to on the morrow, but I had to tell the story to Aunt Lucy and Winnie!

      That, of itself, would require some thought and tactful management, for I was not willing to have them condemn Vicky Van entirely, and yet, I could think of no argument to put forth for the girl's innocence.

      Time alone must tell.

      CHAPTER VI

      VICKY'S WAYS

      "Ches-ter Cal-houn! Get up this minute! There's a reporter downstairs! A reporter!"

      My sleepy eyes opened to find Winnie pounding my shoulder as it humped beneath the blanket.

      "Hey? What?" I grunted, trying to collect my perceptions.

      "A reporter!" If Winnie had said a Bengal tiger, she couldn't have looked more terrified.

      "Great Scott! Win—I remember! Clear out, I'll be down in a minute."

      I dressed in record time and went downstairs in three leaps.

      In the library, I found Aunt Lucy, wearing an expression that she might have shown if the garbage man had asked her to a dance.

      But Winnie was eagerly drinking in the story poured forth by the said reporter, who was quite evidently enjoying his audience.

      "Oh, Chet, this is Mr. Bemis of The Meteor. He's telling us all about the—you know—what happened."

      Winnie was too timid to say the word murder, and I was sorry she had to hear the awful tale from any one but myself. However, there was no help for it now, and I joined the group and did all I could to bring Aunt Lucy's eyebrows and nose down to their accustomed levels.

      But it was an awful story, make the best of it, and the truth had to be told.

      "It is appalling," conceded Aunt Lucy, at length, "but the most regrettable circumstance, to my mind, is your connection with it all, Chester."

      "Now, Auntie, have a little heart for poor Mrs. Schuyler, and those old lady sisters. Also for the man himself—"

      "Oh, I have, Chet. I'm not inhuman. But those things are in the papers every day, and while one feels a general sympathy, it can't be personal if one doesn't know the people. But, for you to be mixed up in such matters—"

      "I wasn't mixed up in it, Aunt Lucy, except as I chose to mix myself. And I've no doubt I should have gotten into it anyway. Mr. Bradbury will have a lot to do with it, I'm sure. I'm no better than he to mix in."

      "In a business way, yes. But you were there socially—where a murder was committed—"

      Aunt Lucy could have shown no more horror of it all, if I had been the convicted criminal.

      "And, I'm glad I was!" I cried, losing patience a little. "If I can be of any help to the Schuyler people or to Miss Van Allen, I shall be willing to do all I can.

      "But Miss Van Allen is the—the murderer!" and Aunt Lucy whispered the word.

      "Don't say that!" I cried sharply. "You don't know it at all, and there's no reason to condemn the girl—"

      I paused. Bemis was taking in my every word with a canny understanding of what I said, and also of what I didn't say.

      "Where do your suspicions tend, Mr. Calhoun?" he said smoothly.

      "Frankly, Mr. Bemis, I don't know. I am an acquaintance of Miss Van Allen and I cannot reconcile the idea of crime with her happy, gentle nature. Nor can I see any reason to suspect the waiter who first told of the matter. But might not some person, some enemy of Mr. Schuyler, have been secreted in the house—"

      "A plausible theory," agreed Bemis, "even an obvious one, but almost no chance of it. I've seen the caterer's people, and they were in charge of the basement rooms and the dining-room all the evening. Unless it were one of the guests at the party, I think no intruder could have gotten in."

      "Well," I returned, uneasily, for I wished he would go, "it isn't up to us to invent theories or to defend them. I will answer your necessary questions, but pardon me, if I remind you that I am a busy man and I haven't yet had my breakfast."

      Bemis took the hint, and after a string of definite and pertinent questions, he left.

      Winnie tried to detain him, but my curt courtesy made it difficult for him to linger.

      "Oh, Chessy," cried my sister, as soon as Bemis had gone, "it's awful,

      I know, but isn't it exciting?"

      "Hush, Winnie," reproved Aunt Lucy. "A girl of your age should know nothing of these things, and I want you to put it out of your mind. You can be of no help, and I do not want your nerves disturbed by the harrowing details."

      "That's all right, Aunt Lucy," I put in, "but this is going to be a celebrated case, and Winnie can't be kept in ignorance of its developments. Now be a good sort, Auntie—accept the inevitable. Try to realize that I must do what seems to me my duty, and if that brings us more or less into the limelight of publicity, it is a pity, but it can't be helped."