And this was true. Ariadne had caught the sidelong glance of Vicky Van's dark-lashed eyes, and the curve of her scarlet lips. The coloring was perfect, just Vicky's vivid tints, and the dark hair, looped over her ears, was as she always wore it. Ariadne had drawn her in the gown she had worn that fatal evening, and the women eagerly scrutinized the gorgeous costume. "No wonder those long strands of fringe caught in that scraggly mirror frame!" exclaimed Winnie, who never missed a point. "Right," said Stone. "If she whirled around as you did, Miss Calhoun, it's a wonder she didn't spoil her whole gown." The pose and the figure were not exactly Vicky's. Ariadne wasn't much on catching a likeness or a physical effect. But the color and atmosphere were fine, and I told this to Stone, who agreed that it was a decided help in the search. Julie's portrait was the same. Not a real likeness of the woman, but an impressionist transcript of her salient points. The gray gown and white apron, the thick-rimmed glasses, the parted lips, showing slightly protruding teeth, the plainly parted brown hair, all were the real Julie; and yet, except for these accessories I'm not sure I could have recognized the subject of the sketch. However, as I told Stone, it certainly was a helpful indication of the sort of woman he was to look for, and even in disguise, the physical characteristics must show. The detective was positive that wherever Vicky Van and Julie were, or whatever they were doing, they were in all probability disguised, and thoroughly so, or they must have been discovered ere this. To my amusement, Fibsy and Ruth were holding a tete-a-tete conversation. The kind-hearted woman had, doubtless, felt sorry for the boy's shyness, and had drawn him into chat to put him at his ease. She had succeeded, too, for he was animated, and had lost his self-consciousness under the charm of her smile. "And I'll bet your birthday comes in the spring," he was saying, as I caught the tenor of their talk. "It does," said Ruth, looking surprised. "How did you guess?" "'Cause you're just like a little spring flower--a white crocus or a bit of arbutus." And then, noting my attention, the boy was covered with confusion and blushed to the tips of his ears. He rose from where he sat, and shuffled awkwardly around the great room, devoting exaggerated attention to some books in the glassed cases, and twirling his fingers in acute embarrassment. "You scared him away," chided Ruth, under her breath, as our glances met. "He and I were getting positively chummy." "Why was he talking of your birthday? I asked. "I don't know, I'm sure. He said I was born in the spring, because I'm like a flower! Really, that child will grow up a poet, if he doesn't look out!" "You are like a flower," I murmured back. "And I'm glad your birthday is in spring. I mean to celebrate it!" And then I thought of poor Vicky Van's birthday, so tragically ended, and I quickly changed the subject.