My dear Mrs. Reeves: You have always been such a good friend to me that I'm writing you just a line. You are everything that is good and kind, and now I'm going to ask you as a final favor to forget Vicky Van at once and forever. I am going away and I shall never return. Don't think of me any more hardly than you must, but if you can keep any loving little memory of the hours we spent together, I want you to do so. And as a remembrance, I want you to have my little electric coupe. It is in Rennard's garage, and I have written him to turn it over to you. I shall miss our happy times together, but--I can never come back. Do not worry about me, I am safe. And I am your affectionate Vicky Van. "You are sure this is from Miss Van Allen?" asked Fenn. "Oh, yes," replied Mrs. Reeves. "There's no mistaking that writing." Nor was there. I knew Vicky's penmanship, and it was most peculiar. Never have I seen such a hand. Angular, slightly backhanded, and full of character, it would be difficult to imitate it, and, too, no one would have any reason to forge that letter to Mrs. Reeves. She had verified Vicky's statement, and found that a letter to the garage owner had instructed him to give up the car to Mrs. Reeves, and he had already done so, that very morning. The letters had both been mailed in New York the night before, the postmark showing that they were mailed in the district that included Vicky's residence. Was she, then, even now in hiding near her home? Or, had she sent the letters to be mailed by some one else? By Julie, perhaps, who, I felt sure, was with her mistress, wherever that might be. My leaping thoughts took in all this, and by degrees the slower going coroner, put it in words. Lowney, the detective, bristled with interest. A clue, he had, he thought, but what a clue! Two letters posted in the city. What did they show of the whereabouts of the missing girl? Lowney scrutinized the one to Mrs. Reeves. Ordinary paper, such as might be bought in any stationery or department store, no monogram or initial on it, nor was there any maker's name under the flap. But a dozen people present testified to Vicky's handwriting, and the coroner eagerly took possession of the letter. Sherlock Holmes, I thought to myself, would read that letter, look at it through his good old lens, smell it, and then walk out, and return in a half hour, with Vicky Van in tow! But for my part, I could see nothing illuminating in that plain paper and envelope, and the letter in the well-known penmanship. All I gathered was, that wherever Vicky was, she was not only safe but comfortable. The tenor of the note breathed leisure and composure. Clearly, she was not breathlessly hurrying from one place to another, or vigilantly eluding pursuit. She was at ease, with opportunity to indulge in thoughtful kindness to a friend, and to write at length about herself.