But there were few "gay" ones in the collection. Wagner's operas and Beethoven's solemn marches gave forth their noble numbers and Fibsy sat, politely listening.

"No ragtime, I s'pose?" he said, after a particularly depressing fugue resounded its last echoes.

"No," and Ruth glanced at him. "Mr. Schuyler didn't care for rag time—on the phonograph," she added, perhaps remembering Dotty Fay.

We stayed late. Several times Stone proposed our departure, but Ruth urged us to remain longer or began some subject of interest that held us in spite of ourselves. I had never seen her so entertaining. Indeed, I had never before seen her in what might be called a society setting. She was a charming hostess, and the occasion seemed to please her, for there was a pink flush on her cheeks and an added brightness to her gray eyes that convinced me anew of the joy she could take in simple pleasures.

She singled out Fibsy for her especial attentions, and the boy accepted the honor with a gentle grace that astounded me. When talking to her he lost entirely his slang and uncouth diction and behaved as to the manner born. He was chameleonic, I could see, and he unconsciously took color from his surroundings.

And sometimes I caught him gazing at Ruth with a strange expression that mingled amazement and sadness, and I couldn't understand it at all.

Again, I would find Ruth's eyes fixed on me with a beseeching glance that might mean anything or nothing.

As a whole the atmosphere seemed surcharged with a nameless excitement, almost a terror, as if something dire were impending. Once or twice I saw Stone and Terence exchange startled glances, but they rarely looked at each other.

There was something brewing, of that I was sure. But whatever it was it did not affect the Schuyler sisters. They were eager to talk, anxious to hear, but they felt nothing of the undercurrent of mysterious meaning that affected the rest of us.

I was glad when the time came to go. It was very late, nearly midnight, and I marveled to see that Ruth showed no sign of weariness. The sisters had been frankly yawning for some time, but Ruth's eyes were unnaturally bright, and her pale cheeks showed a tiny red spot on either side.

She shook hands nervously and her voice trembled as she said good-night.

Fleming Stone and the boy were moved, I could see that, but they made their adieux without reference to future meeting or further work on the mystery.

We went away, and as we turned the corner, I started to cross the street to go to my home.

"Come into the Van Allen house a few minutes, Calhoun," said Stone, gravely. "I've something to tell you."

We went in at Vicky Van's. Stone's manner was ominous. He and Fibsy both were silent and grave-looking.

We went in at the street door, into the hall and then to the living-room.

Stone and I sat down, and Fibsy darted out to the dining-room, back to the hall and up the stairs, flashing on lights as he went.

In silence Stone lighted a cigar and offered me one, which I took, feeling a strange notion that the end of the world was about to come.

In another moment Fibsy came slowly down stairs, walked into the living-room, where we were, gave one look at Stone, and then threw himself on a divan, buried his face in the cushions and burst into tears. His thin little frame shook with sobs, great, deep, heart-rending, nerve-racking sobs, that made my own heart stand still with fear.

What could it all mean? What ailed the boy?

"Tell me, Stone," I begged, "what is it? What has upset him so?"

"He has found Vicky Van," said Fleming Stone. "And it has broken his heart."

"What do you mean? Don't keep me in this suspense! Where is Vicky?

Upstairs?"

"No," said Stone, "not now."

"Explain, please," I said, beginning to get angry.

"I will," said Stone.

"No!" cried Fibsy, "no, Mr. Stone, let me t-t-tell. W-wait a minute,

I'll tell. Oh, oh, I knew it all day, b-b-but I couldn't believe it!

I wouldn't believe it! Why, Mr. Calhoun, Vicky Van is—is—why, Mrs.

Schuyler is Vicky Van!"

CHAPTER XIX PROOFS AND MORE PROOFS

"You are absolutely crazy!" I said, laughing, though the laugh choked in my throat, as I looked at Stone. "You see, Fibsy, you're gone dotty over this thing, and you're running round in circles. I know both Mrs. Schuyler and Miss Van Allen, and they've nothing in common. There couldn't be two people more dissimilar."

"That's just it—that's how I know," wailed the boy. "That's how I first caught on. You see—oh, tell him, Mr. Stone."

"The boy is right," said Stone, slowly. "And the—"

"He can't be right! It's impossible!" I fairly shouted, as thoughts came flashing into my mind—dreadful thoughts, appalling thoughts!

Ruth Schuyler and Vicky Van one person! Why, then, Ruth killed—No! a thousand times NO! It couldn't be true! The boy was insane, and Stone was, too. I'd show them their own foolishness.

"Stop a minute, Stone," I said, trying to speak calmly. "You and the boy never knew Vicky Van. You never saw her, except as she ran along the street for a few steps at midnight. And Terence didn't see her then. It's too absurd, this theory of yours! But it startled me, when you sprung it. Now, Fibsy, stop your sobbing and tell me what makes you think this foolish thing, and I'll relieve your mind of any such ideas."

"I don't blame you, Mr. Calhoun," and Fibsy mopped his eyes with his wet handkerchief. He was a strange little figure, in his new clothes, but with his red hair tumbled and his eyes big and swollen with weeping. "I know you can't believe it, but you listen a bit, while I tell Mr. Stone some things. Then you'll see."

"Yes, Terence," said Stone; "go ahead. What about the prints?"

"They prove up," and Fibsy's woe increased afresh. "They ain't no shadder of doubt. The very reason I know they're the same is 'cause they're so unlike. Yes, I'll explain—wait a minute—"

Again a crying spell overwhelmed him, and we waited.

"Now," he said, regaining self-control, "now I've spilled all my tears I'll out with it. The first thing that struck me was the abserlute unlikeness of those two ladies. I mean in their tastes an' ways. Why, fer instance, an' I guess it was jest about the very first thing I noticed, was the magazines. In here, on Miss Van Allen's table, as you can see yourself, is—jest look at 'em! Vogue, Vanity Fair, Life, Cosmopolitan, an' lots of light-weight story magazines. In at Schuylers' house is Atlantic Monthly, Harper's, Century, The Forum, The North American Review, and a lot of other highbrow reading. An' it ain't only that the magazines in here are gayer an' lighter, an' in there heavier an' wiser; but there isn't a single duplicate! Now, Miss Vicky Van likes good readin', you can see from her books an' all, so why don't she take Harper's an' Century? 'Cause she has 'em in her other home—"

"But, wait, child," I cried, getting bewildered; "you don't mean Vicky Van lives sometimes in this house and sometimes in the Schuyler house as its mistress!"

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