"No, here it is," and she handed me a little box, "Just put it away safely for the present. And now, this is what I want to ask of you. Don't let them engage that Mr. Stone, to hunt me down, will you?" "Why, how can I help it?" "Oh, can't you?" and she sounded so disappointed; "I hoped you could persuade Mrs. Schuyler not to have him." "But Mrs. Schuyler doesn't want him, either!" I exclaimed. "It's those two sisters who insist on getting him. And I never could turn their wills, try as I might." "Why doesn't Mrs. Schuyler want him?" "Oh, I'm not sure that she really objects to the plan, but, I mean she didn't seem as anxious as the other two. You see, little girl, the widow of Randolph Schuyler isn't so bitter against you as the two sisters are." "That's good of her," and Vicky's voice was wistful. "But, you know I must remain in hiding--" "I thought you were going to leave New York?" "I am. And at once. But if that Mr. Stone gets on my trail, he'll find me, as sure as fate. And so I risked this interview to try to persuade you to use your influence against his coming." "And I'll do that," I returned, heartily. "But I feel that I ought to tell you that I doubt my power to dissuade the Schuyler sisters from their determination. And, too, how did you know they thought of getting him?" "Oh, I see all the papers, you know, and in one of them a reporter gave a personal interview with the Schuyler people, and they hinted at getting that man." Vicky sighed wearily, as if her last hope was gone. I was full of questions I wanted to ask her, but it seemed intrusive and unkind to quiz her. And yet, one thing I felt I must say. I must ask her what she knew of the actual crime. "Tell me," I blurted out, "who did kill Randolph Schuyler?" Again I felt her tremble, and her voice quivered as she whispered back, "It must have been some enemy of his, who got in at the window, or something like that." My heart fell. This was the sort of thing she would say if she were herself the guilty one. I had hoped for a more sincere, even if despairing, answer. "But I must send you away," she breathed in my ear. We were standing just inside the room, and Vicky held her hand on a chair-back for support. There was the faintest light from the street, enough for us to distinguish one another's forms, but no more. Vicky wore a street gown of some sort, and a long cloak. On her head was a small hat, and a black net veil. This was tied so tightly that it interfered a little with her speech, I thought, though when I had looked at her face by my flashlight, the veil had not been of sufficient thickness to conceal her features at all. I've often wondered why women wear those uncomfortable things. She kept pulling it away from her lips as she talked. "I want my address book," she went on, hurriedly. "I've looked all over for it, and it's gone. Did the detective take it?" "I think he did," I replied, remembering Lowney's search. "Can't you get it back for me?"