"Winnie, you're positively lowbred to show such curiosity!" I exclaimed, angrily--the more so, that I had the house key in my pocket at that moment. But I was glad I had not told them of Vicky Van's letter to me! I waited until well past midnight, and then, after seeing the post patrol pass Vicky's door, I softly went out of my own house, and across the street. I walked calmly up the steps of Vicky's home, and sadly put the latchkey in the door--for the last time. I felt as if I were performing funeral rites, and I entered and closed the door behind me, softly, as one does in the house of death. I went up the stairs, in the gloom. It was not black darkness, for a partly raised blind gave me a glimmer of light from the street. Into the music room I went, and by my pocket flashlight, I took the lid from the Chinese jar. But there was no parcel inside! Amazed, I threw the light down into the big vase, but it was utterly empty. There was no use looking elsewhere for the parcel--I knew Vicky well enough to know that she would do exactly as she had said. Or, since she hadn't, I was sure that she would not have left that parcel in any other hiding-place. I put the flashlight back in my pocket, and started downstairs. Slowly I descended, for I still felt a little uncertain what to do. Should I wait for a short time, or go back home and return again later? I reached the foot of the stairs, and concluded to go home, and then think out my next step. As I passed the living-room door, I heard a low voice whisper my name. I turned sharply. In the doorway, I could dimly discern a cloaked figure. "Hush!" she said, softly, and beckoned to me. It was Vicky Van! CHAPTER XIII FLEMING STONE Vicky had said "Hush!" but it was an unnecessary precaution, for I was too stunned to articulate. I peered at her in the darkness and then, unable to control my desire for certainty I flashed my little pocket light on her for an instant. "Don't!" she whispered, putting her hands up before her face. But I had seen. It was really Vicky Van, her smooth black hair looped over her ears, her scarlet mouth, and soft pink cheeks, flushed with excitement of the moment, and her long dark lashes, which suddenly fell beneath the blinding flare of the light, all were those of the runaway girl. "Don't talk," she said, hastily, "let me do the talking. I want you to help me, will you?" "Of course, I will," and all sense of law and justice fled before the wave of pity and solicitude for the trembling suppliant who thus appealed to me. Her voice was indistinct and a little hoarse, as if she was laboring under great mental and nerve strain, and she was so alone, so unprotected, that I couldn't help promising any assistance in my power. "There wasn't any parcel in the big vase," I said, in a low voice, as she seemed to hesitate about going on with her explanation.