Win handed me a letter-opener, and I slit the envelope. As they breathlessly awaited my words, I read: To Mrs. Randolph Schuyler: Dear Madam: It is useless to look for me. To-day I am leaving New York forever. The mystery of Mr. Schuyler's death will never be solved, the truth never learned. I alone know the secret and it will die with me. You may employ detectives from now till doomsday but you will discover nothing. So give up the search, for you will never find Victoria Van Allen. There was a pause as I finished reading. Myself, I was thrilled by a certain phrase in the letter. Vicky said, "the secret will die with me." Again, I felt that she was intending to bring about her own death, and that speedily. Would we know it if she did? I was thinking deeply, when Miss Rhoda, spoke: "I believe that girl means to kill herself, and I should think she would!" "Why do you think that?" and Ruth looked up with a startled face. "It sounds so, and it would be the natural outcome of her remorse at her dreadful deed." "I think she must be guilty," said Winnie, her dear little countenance drawn with grief, as she studied the letter for herself. None of us said much more. We all were stunned in a way, by this unexpected development, and had to readjust our theories. "Well," Miss Rhoda said, decidedly, "I shall consult Mr. Stone, anyway. I've written him, and though I've not mailed the letter yet, I shall send it off to-night. Then when he comes to talk it over we can see what he says and abide by his judgment." "That's a good idea, Rhoda," and Ruth Schuyler nodded assentingly; "I, too, want justice, and if Fleming Stone thinks he can find Miss Van Allen, let him do so." It was six o'clock then, and Win and I went home, leaving the Schuyler ladies to their own discussions. Ruth Schuyler's hand lingered a moment in mine, as I bade her adieu, and she said, wistfully, "I wish you would tell me just what you think we had better do. I am so unaccustomed to judging for myself in any important matter." "I think it is wise to get Mr. Stone," I returned. "In any case it can do no harm, you know." "No, I suppose not," and she gave me one of her rare smiles of appreciation. "I am glad you are looking after us, instead of Mr. Bradbury," she said further, and I sincerely responded that I was glad, too. Another surprise awaited me at home. On the hall table lay my own mail, and as I picked it up, and ran the letters over, there was one from Vicky Van. I hastily concealed it from Winnie's sharp eyes, for I had no notion what it might divulge, and hurried with it up to my own room. Impatiently I tore it open and raced through its contents. Dear Mr. Calhoun: