aristocratic hauteur of the sisters.

Ruth Schuyler made no objection to the proposition, and seemed
relieved that her advice would not be required.

"Who is in the house where Mr. Schuyler was--where he died?" she
asked, hesitatingly.

"Only the police," I answered, "unless Miss Van Allen has returned."

"Were--were there many people there--last night?"

Clearly, she wanted to know more details of the occasion, but didn't
like to show curiosity.

"Yes," I informed her, "quite a number. It was Miss Van Allen's
birthday, and so, a sort of little celebration."

"Her birthday? How old was she?"

"I've no idea. I should guess about twenty-two or twenty-three."

"Is she--is--what does she look like?"

The eternal feminine wanted to ask "is she pretty?" but Ruth
Schuyler's dignity scarcely permitted the question. I noticed, too,
that the sisters listened attentively for my reply.

"Yes," I said, truthfully, "she is pretty. She is small, with very
black hair, and large, dark gray eyes. She is exceedingly chic and