As Win had said, she looked charming, although pathetic in her black robes. She permitted herself a touch of white at the turned-in throat, and a white flower was tucked in her bodice. A contrast, indeed, to the severe garb of the spinster sisters, who looked like allegorical figures of hopeless gloom. But their manner was more of militant revenge, and, having heard the verdict of the coroner's jury, they were ready to take up the case themselves. "Come in, Mr. Calhoun," they called out, as I entered the library, "you're just the man we want to see. Now, that the coroner has finished his task, we will take the matter up. Mr. Lowney, I suppose, will continue the search for Miss Van Allen, but we fear he will not be successful. So, we have determined to send for the great detective, Fleming Stone." "Stone!" I cried, "why, he won't work with the police." "Then he can work without them," declared Rhoda, with asperity. "I've heard wonderful stories of that man's success, and we're going to engage him at once." "He's very expensive," I began. "No matter. We're going to find our brother's murderer if it takes every penny of our fortune." "What do you think of this plan, Mrs. Schuyler?" I asked. "I've not been consulted," she said, with a slight smile. "Since Mr. Randolph's sisters choose to adopt it, I have no reason to object. I know nothing of Mr. Stone, but if he is really a great detective, he will not condemn that girl unheard. And if she is proved guilty, of course the claims of justice must be met. Do you know him, Mr. Calhoun?" "Not personally. I've often heard of him, and he's a wonder. If you want to find Miss Van Allen, you can't do better than to get him on the trail. If he can't find her, nobody can." "That's what I say," put in Sarah. "And if he doesn't find her, at least we've the satisfaction of knowing we've done all we could." "We thought of offering a reward for information of Miss Van Allen," added Rhoda, "but if we're going to get Mr. Stone, wouldn't it be better to consult him about that?" "I think it would," I judged. Just then Winnie came into the room. She had been writing notes, and she held a lot of unopened letters in her hand. "Oh, Ruth," she cried, "what do you think! Here's the mail, Jepson just gave it to me, and there's a letter for you from Miss Van Allen!" "What!" cried everybody at once. "Yes," declared Winnie, "I know the hand, it's the same as was on that letter to Mr. Schuyler. It's such a queer hand, you can't forget it." She handed all the letters to Ruth, the one she referred to on top. Mrs. Schuyler turned pale as she looked at the envelope. I glanced at it, too, and without doubt, it was Vicky Van's writing. It had been mailed in New York that same morning, and delivered just now, about five o'clock. "You open it, Mr. Calhoun," said Ruth, as if she shrank from the task. I took it gravely, for it seemed to me to portend trouble for little Vicky. Was she giving herself up, or what?