I went down to the library, and sat down for a smoke and a revery. And
I sat there until very late, after two o'clock, in fact, without
getting any nearer a plan than I was at the start.

It was nearly three, when I concluded that I could sleep at last. I
stood by the front window a moment, looking over at Vicky Van's house,
across the street, and a few doors from our own.

As I looked at the darkened dwelling, I saw the front door slowly
open. There was no one outside, it was being opened from inside. As I
knew the body of Mr. Schuyler had been taken away, and the house had
been deserted by all who had been there, and that it was in custody of
the police, I looked curiously to see what would happen next.

Out of the door came a slight, small figure. It was, I felt positive,
Vicky Van herself! I couldn't mistake that sleek, black head--she wore
no hat--or those short, full skirts, that she always wore. She looked
about cautiously, and then with swift motions she unlocked the
letter-box that was beside her front door, took out several letters,
relocked the box and slipped back into the house again!

Without stopping to think I opened my front door, and flew across the
street. Mounting her steps, I rang the doorbell hard. There was no
response, and I kept on ringing--a veritable bombardment. Then the
door opened a very little bit--I could see it was on a night-chain--and
Vicky's voice said, "Please go away."

"No, I won't," I said, "let me come in."