"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?" "No; but things are queer." "Queer, how?" "Well, you wouldn't understand. A man couldn't. But it's this way. Lots of potted meats and jars of jam and cans of tea and coffee and cocoa in the pantry, but no fresh meat or green vegetables about. No butter in the icebox, and no eggs or bacon." "Well, what does that imply? I'm no housekeeper, I admit." "It looks to me as if Vicky was leaving this morning--I mean as if she had expected to go away to-day, and so had no stuff on hand to spoil." "Perhaps this is her market day." "No; it's queer, that's what it is. You know sometimes Vicky does go away for days at a time." "Hasn't she a right to?" "Of course she has. I'm thinking it out. Where does she go? And wherever it is, that's where she is now!" Mrs. Reeves' triumphant air seemed to settle the question. "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?"