"How do you know that?"

"I don't--not positively. But if she had put on wraps and gone out by
either door she would surely have been seen by some one in the house.
I'm just sure she didn't go out by the front street door, for we in
the living-room must have noticed her. And she couldn't have gone out
by the area door, for there were waiters all about, down here."

We were sitting in the front basement room, a pleasant enough place,
evidently a servants' sitting room. Before Mrs. Reeves, on the table,
were the remnants of her scarce tasted breakfast. As she had said, the
tiny sandwiches and rich salad, which she had procured from the unused
stores of the caterer's provision, did seem too closely connected with
the tragedy to be appetizing.

"The kitchen is back of this?" I asked.

"Yes, and dumb waiters to the dining-room. I confess I've looked
about a bit. I'm not a prying woman--but I felt I was justified."

"You certainly are, Mrs. Reeves," I said, warmly, for she was
thoroughly good-hearted, and a staunch friend of Vicky Van. "Have you
learned anything illuminating?"

"No; but things are queer."

"Queer, how?"

"Well, you wouldn't understand. A man couldn't. But it's this way.
Lots of potted meats and jars of jam and cans of tea and coffee and