"Yes, but can't you give Vicky the benefit of the doubt? For there is a doubt. Why should she kill a man she never had seen before?" "Perhaps he wasn't a stranger to her, after all." "Why, I heard her say, before he came, that she didn't know him." "You heard her say she didn't know Mr. Somers," I corrected. "I've been thinking this thing over. Suppose Vicky did know Mr. Schuyler, and when Steele proposed bringing a Mr. Somers--" "No, you're all wrong!" she exclaimed. "I saw them when they met, and I'm sure they had never laid eyes on each other before. There was not the least sign of recognition. Besides, that isn't like Vicky--to have a millionaire and a married man for her friend. That girl is all right, Mr. Calhoun, and I don't want you to let Mrs. Schuyler think she isn't." "Perhaps Mrs. Schuyler knows something about her." "I doubt it. Anyway, you stand up for Vicky, as far as you can do so honestly. Won't you?" "I can surely promise that," I replied, as I started on my errand. Approaching the Fifth Avenue residence, I looked at the house, which I had been unable to see clearly the night before. It was large and handsome, but not one of the most modern mansions. Four stories, it was, and as I glanced up I noticed that all the window shades were down. The floral emblem of death hung at one side of the wide entrance, and as I approached, the door silently swung open. A footman was in charge, and I was ushered at once to the library where I had been some hours earlier. It was not a cheerful room; the appointments were heavy and somber, though evidently the woods and fabrics were of great value. A shaded electrolier gave a dim light, for the drawn blinds precluded daylight. A soft step, and Mrs. Schuyler came into the room. Black garb was not becoming to her. The night before, in her blue house-dress, she had looked almost pretty, but now, in a black gown, without even a bit of relieving white at her throat, she was plain and very pathetic. Her face was pale and drawn, and her eyes showed dark shadows, as of utter weariness. She greeted me simply and glided to a nearby chair. "It is kind of you to come, Mr. Calhoun," and the fine quality of her voice and inflection betokened New England ancestry, or training. "As you were here last night--you seem more like a friend than a mere business acquaintance." "I am very glad, Mrs. Schuyler," and I spoke sincerely, "that you look on me like that. Please tell me anything you wish to, and command me in any way I can serve you." The speech sounded a little stilted, I knew, but there was something about Ruth Schuyler that called for dignified address. She had the air of bewildered helplessness that always appeals to a man, but she had, too, a look of determination as to one who would do the right thing at any cost of personal unpleasantness.