On we went to the third floor of the house. The rooms here were unused, save one that was evidently Julie's. The furnishings, though simple, were attractive, and showed a thoughtful mistress and an appreciative maid. Everything was in order. Several uniforms of black and of gray were in the cupboard, and several white aprons and one white dress. There were books, and a work-basket and such things as betokened the life of a sedate, busy woman. We left no room, no cupboard unopened. No hall or loft unsearched. We looked in, under and behind every piece of furniture, and came, at last, to the unescapable conclusion that wherever Vicky Van might be, she was not in her own house. Downstairs we went, and found Coroner Fenn and Inspector Mason in the hall. They had let Doctor Remson go home, also Garrison and Miss Gale. The waiters, too, had been sent off. "You people can go, if you like," Fenn said, to Mrs. Reeves and myself. "I'll take your addresses, and you can expect to be called on as witnesses. If we ever get anything to witness! I never saw such a case! No criminal to arrest, and nobody knows the victim! He must be from out of town. We'll nail Mr. Steele to-morrow, and begin to get somewhere. Also we'll look up Miss Van Allen's credits and business acquaintances. A woman can't have lived two years in a house like this, and not have somebody know her antecedents and relatives. I suppose Mr. Steele brought his friend here, and then, when this thing happened he was scared and lit out." "Maybe Steele did the killing," suggested Lowney. "No," disagreed Fenn. "I believe that Dago waiter's yarn. I cross-questioned him a lot before I let him go, and I'm sure he's telling what he saw. I'll see Fraschini's head man to-morrow--or, I suppose it's to-morrow now--hello, who's that?" Another policeman came in at the street door. "What's up?" he said, looking about in amazement. "You here, Mr. Fenn? Lowney? What's doing?" It was Patrolman Ferrall, the officer on the beat. "Where you been?" asked the coroner. "Don't you know what has happened?" "No; ever since midnight I been handling a crowd at a fire a couple blocks away. This is Miss Van Allen's house." "Sure it is, and a friend of hers named Somers has been bumped off." "What? Killed?" "That's it. What do you know of Miss Van Allen?" "Nothing, except that she lives here. Quiet young lady. Nothin' to be said about her. Who's the man?" "Don't know, except named Somers. R. Somers." "Never heard of him. Where's Miss Van Allen?" "Skipped." "What! That little thoroughbred can't be mixed up in a shootin'!" "He isn't shot. Stabbed. With a kitchen knife." "Let's see him." The coroner and Ferrall went toward the dining room, and, on an irresistible impulse of curiosity, I followed. "Him!" exclaimed Ferrall, as he caught sight of the dead man's features. "That ain't no Somers. That's Randolph Schuyler." "What!"