FIBSY DINES OUT
That dinner at Ruth Schuyler's was memorable. And, yet, it was in no
way markedly unusual. The service was perfect, as might be expected in
that well-ordered household, and the guests were well behaved. Fibsy,
thanks to Fleming Stone's thoughtful kindness, was arrayed in the
proper dinner garb of a schoolboy, and his immaculate linen and
correct jacket seemed to invest him in a mantle of politeness that sat
well on his youthful buoyancy and enthusiasm.
I glanced round the table. It was a strange combination of people.
Fleming Stone was the sort of man who is at ease anywhere, and I, too,
am adaptable by nature. But the Schuyler sisters were very evidently
annoyed at the idea of receiving as an equal the youth whom they
regarded as a mere street arab.
Fibsy had become a firm friend of Ruth's, but he couldn't seem to like
the other ladies, and he with difficulty refrained from showing this.
The Misses Schuyler were impressive in their heavy and elaborate
mourning, and to my mind Ruth looked far more appropriately dressed.
She wore a black and white striped chiffon, with touches of black
silk, and the effect, with her pale face and fair hair was lovely. A
breastknot of valley lilies added to the loveliness, and I allowed my
eyes to feast on her fairness. I had thought Ruth was not what could
be called a pretty woman, certainly she was not beautiful; but that
night her charm appealed to me more strongly than ever, and I
concluded that her air of high-bred delicacy and infinite fineness
were more to be desired than mere beauty.
Fibsy, too, devoured her with his eyes, though discreetly, and when he
thought he was not observed.
Fleming Stone devoted himself to the sisters; probably, I concluded,
because he was in their employ, and so owed them his attention.
Ruth wore her beautiful pearls, and referred to the fact,
half-apologetically, saying that Mr. Schuyler had liked always to see
them on her, and she felt privileged to continue to use them, even in
her mourning period.
"You like only poils--pearls, don't you, Mrs. Schuyler?"
Fibsy's slip of pronunciation was due to his slight embarrassment at
his novel surroundings, but he valiantly corrected himself and ignored
it.
"I like other gems," Ruth replied, "but Mr. Schuyler preferred pearls,
and gave me such beauties that I have grown very fond of them."
"I remember, Ruth," said Sarah, reminiscently, "how you used to beg
Randolph for sapphires and diamonds instead. You even wanted
semi-precious stones--turquoises and topaz. Oh, I remember. But
Randolph taught you that pearls were the best taste for a young matron
and you grudgingly acquiesced."
"Oh, not grudgingly, Sarah," and Ruth flushed at the reprimand in her
sister's voice.
"Yes, grudgingly. Even unwillingly. In fact, all Randolph's decisions
you fought until he made you surrender. You know how you wanted
gay-colored gowns until he made you see that grays and mauves were
better taste."
"Never mind my peccadilloes," said Ruth, lightly. "Let's talk of
something less personal."
"Let's talk about the weather," suggested Fibsy, who was not
conducting himself on the seen and not heard plan. "The park is fine
now. All full o' red an' gold autumn leaves. Have you noticed it, Mrs.
Schuyler?"
"Not especially," and Ruth smiled at him, in appreciation of his
conversational help. "I must walk over there to-morrow."
"Yes,'m. An' why don't you go for a long motor; ride up Westchester
way? The scenery's great!"
"How do you know, have you been there?"
"Not just lately, but I was last fall. Do you remember the big trees
just at the turn of the road by--"
But Ruth was not listening to the child. Stone had said something that
claimed her attention.
However, Fibsy was unabashed. With no trace of forwardness, but with
due belief in his security of position as a guest, he continued to
chatter to Ruth, and rarely addressed any one else.
He has something up his sleeve, I thought, for I was beginning to have
great faith in the lad's cleverness.
He sat at Ruth's left hand, Stone being in the seat of the honor
guest, and as that left me between the two sisters, I was doomed to
participate in their chatter. But I was opposite my hostess and could
enjoy looking at her in the intervals of conversation.
Suddenly, I chanced to look up and I saw Fibsy's comical little face
drawn with grimaces as he sang a snatch of a popular song.
My heart goes twirly-whirly
When I see my pearlie girlie,
With her--
"Now, what is that next line? With her--?"
"With her ring-around-a-rosy curls!" supplemented Ruth, her own face
breaking into laughter, as, caught by the infection of Fibsy's waggish
gayety, she rounded out the phrase.
"Yes, that's it," said Fibsy, eagerly, "and
Her teeth like little shining pearls,
Oh, she's my queen of all the girls,
My little twirly-whirly, pearlie Girlie!"
Ruth and Fibsy finished the silly little song in concert, and Stone
clapped his hands in applause.
Rhoda sniffed and Sarah acidly remarked:
"How can you, Ruth? I wish you'd be a little more dignified."
Quickly the light went out of Ruth's eyes. She looked reproved, and
though she didn't resent it, a patient sadness came into her eyes, and
I resolved that I would do all I could to get it arranged that she
should live apart from the two carping, criticizing sisters.
After dinner we had coffee in the library. Again, Fleming Stone took
it upon himself to entertain the Misses Schuyler, and I drifted toward
Ruth. She sat down on a sofa and motioned Fibsy to sit beside her. I
drew a chair up to them and thanked a kind fate that let us all leave
the table at once, dispensing with a more formal tarrying of the men.
After the coffee there were liqueurs. I glanced at Fibsy to see if he
accepted a tiny glass from the butler's tray.
He did, and, moreover, he examined the contents with the air of a
connoisseur.
"Oo de vee de Dantzic," he remarked, holding up his glass and gazing
at the gold flecks in it.
We all smiled at him.
"Your favorite cordial, Terence?" asked Stone, affably.
"Yessir. Don't you love it, Mrs. Schuyler?"
"Yes," she said, and then, "why, no, I don't love it, child. But one
gets accustomed to something of the sort."
"But don't you like it better than Cream de mint or Benediction?" he
persisted.
Ruth laughed outright. "How do you know those names, you funny boy,"
she said.
"Read 'em on the big signboards," he returned. "They have the biggest
billboards in New York for one of these lickures. I forget which one."
"These are what I like," said Ruth, smiling, as the footman passed a
small bowl of sugared rose-leaves and crisp green candied mint leaves.
"Take some, Terence. They're better for you than liqueurs. Help
yourself."
"They are good," and Fibsy obeyed her. "They taste like goin' into a
florist's shop."
"So they do," agreed Ruth, herself taking a goodly portion.
"Rubbish," said Rhoda. "I think these things are silly. Randolph would
never allow them."
"Now, Rhoda, there's no harm in a few candies," protested Ruth, and
then she changed the subject quickly, for she evaded a passage at arms
with the sisters whenever possible.
The talk, however, soon drifted to the never forgotten subject of the
murder. The sisters mulled over all they had heard or learned during
the day and begged Stone to propound theories or make deductions
therefrom.
Stone obeyed, as that was what he was employed for.
"I think Miss Van Allen is masquerading as somebody else," he
affirmed. "I believe she is in some house not very far from this
neighborhood, under the care of some friend and accompanied and looked
after by her maid Julie. I believe she is in touch with all that goes
on, not only from the newspapers but by means of some spy system or
secret investigation. But the net is drawing round her. I cannot say
just how, but I feel sure that we shall yet get her. It was a grievous
mischance that I let her escape last night, but I shall have another
chance at her, I'm sure."
"And then you'll arrest her," said Rhoda, with a snap of her thin
lips.
"I dare say. Lowney tells me the finger prints on the little knife
with which Mr. Schuyler was killed are clear and unmistakable, but we
have not yet found out whose they are."
"And can you?" said Ruth, anxiously.
"If we find Miss Van Allen," said Stone, "we can at least see if they
are her's."
"Pooh!" said Fibsy contemptuously, "why did'n' youse tell me before
that you had the claw prints? I kin get Miss Van Allen's all right,
all right!"
"How?" said I, for Fibsy had lapsed into the careless speech that
meant business.
"Over to her house. Why, they're all over. I've only gotto photygraph
some brushes an' things on her dressin' table to get all the prints
you want."
"That's true," agreed Stone. "But it won't give us what we want.
Nobody doubts that Miss Van Allen held the knife that stabbed Mr.
Schuyler, and to prove it would be a certain satisfaction. But what we
want is the woman herself."
It was then that I noticed Ruth's maid, Tibbetts, hovering in the hall
outside the library door.
"You may go home, Tibbetts," Ruth said to her, kindly. "These
gentlemen will stay late and I'll look after them myself."
Tibbetts went away, and Ruth said, explanatorily, "My maid is a
treasure. I'd like to have her live here, but she is devoted to her
own little roof tree and I let her off whenever possible."
I knew Tibbets had a home over on Second or Third Avenue, and I
thought it kind of Ruth to indulge her in this. But after a change of
domicile herself perhaps Ruth would arrange differently for her maid.
And, too, as Winnie had often told me of Ruth's cleverness and
efficiency in looking after herself and her belongings, I well knew
she could get along without a maid whenever necessary.
"Did you ever trace that picture in Mr. Schuyler's watch?" Ruth asked,
a few moments later.
"Yes," I said. "It was just as we supposed. A little vaudeville
actress whom Mr. Schuyler had taken out to supper gave it to him, and
he stuck it in his watch case, temporarily. Her name is Dotty Fay and
she seemed to know little about Mr. Schuyler and cared less. Merely
the toy of an evening, she was to him, and merely a chance that the
picture was in his watch the night of his visit to Vicky Van's."
We had come to discuss the personal matters of Randolph Schuyler thus
freely, for we were all at one in our search for the truth, and there
were no secrets or evasions among us.
Ruth sighed, but I knew her dear face so well now that I realized it
was not from personal sorrow, but a general regret that a man of
Schuyler's ability and power should have been such a weakling,
morally. I knew she had never loved her husband, but she had been a
faithful and dutiful wife, and no word or hint of blame had ever
escaped her lips regarding him. She had been a martyr, but I hadn't
learned this from her. The sisters, though unconsciously, told me much
of the deprivation and narrowness of Ruth's life. Schuyler had ruled
her with a rod of iron, and she had never rebelled, though at times
her patience was nearly worn out.
Later in the evening Fibsy asked for some phonograph music, expressing
his great delight in hearing a really fine instrument and good
records.
"I doubt if you'll care for our selections," Ruth remarked, as she
looked over the cabinet of records. "They're almost all classical or
old-fashioned songs."
"I like the classical kind," Fibsy said, endeavoring to be agreeable.
"Please play the gayest you have, though."
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!"