"It's just this way," said Lucille Darrel, positively, "this house is mine, and I want it to myself. Ursula Pell is dead and buried and she can't play any more tricks on anybody. I admit that was a hard joke on you, Iris, to get a dime and pin, when for years you've been expecting a diamond pin! I can't help laughing every time I think of it! But all the same, that's your business, not mine. And, of course, you and Mr. Bannard will get your jewels yet, somehow. That woman left some explanation or directions how to find her hoard of gems. You needn't tell me she didn't."
"That's just it, Miss Darrel," and Iris looked deeply perplexed, "I've never known Aunt Ursula to play one of her foolish tricks but what she 'made it up' as she called it, to her victim. Why, her diary is full of planned jokes and played jokes, but always it records the amends she made. I think yet, that somewhere in that diary we'll find the record of where her jewels are."
"I don't," declared Bannard. "I've read the thingthrough twice; and it does seem to have vague hints, but nothing of real importance."
"I've read it too, at least some of it," and Miss Darrel looked thoughtful, "and I think the reference to the crypt is of importance. Also, I think her idea of having a jeweled chalice made is in keeping with the idea of a crypt as a hiding-place. What more like Ursula Pell than to manage to hide her gems in the crypt of a church and then desire to leave a chalice to that church."
"There's no crypt in the Episcopal church here," objected Iris.
"I didn't say here. The church, I take it, is in some other place. She had no notion of giving a chalice to Mr. Bowen, she just teased him about that, but she meant it for some church in Chicago, where she used to live, or up in that little Maine town where she was brought up and where her father was a minister."
"This may all be so," Bannard admitted, "but it's pure supposition on your part."
"Have you any better supposition? Any other theory? Any clear direction in which to look?"
"No;" and the young man frowned; "I haven't. I think that dime and pin business unspeakably small and mean! I put up with those tricks as long as I could stand them, but to have them pursue meafter Mrs. Pell is dead is a little too much! It's none of itherfamily's fortune, anyway. My uncle, Mr. Pell, owned the jewels and left them to her. She did quite right in dividing them between her own niece and myself, but far from right in so secreting them that they can't be found. And they never will be found! Of that I'm certain. The will itself said they woulddoubtlessbe discovered! What a way to put it!"
"That's all so, Win," Iris spoke wearily, "but we musttryto find them. Couldn't that crypt be in this house, not in any church?"
Bannard looked at the girl curiously. "Do you think so?" he said, briefly.
"You mean a concealed place, I suppose," put in Miss Darrel. "Well, remember this house is mine, now, and I don't want any digging into its foundations promiscuously. If you can prove to me by some good architect's investigation that there is such a place or any chance of such a place, you may open it up. But I won't have the foundations undermined and the cellars dug into, hunting for a crypt that isn't there!"
"Of course we can't prove it's here until we find it, or find some indications of it," Iris agreed. "But you've invited us both to stay here for a week or two——"
"I know I did, but I wish I hadn't, if you're going to tear down my house——"
"Now, now, Miss Darrel," Bannard couldn't help laughing at her angry face, "we're not going to pull the house down about your ears! And if you don't want Iris and me to visit you, as you asked us to, just say so and we'll mighty soon make ourselves scarce! We'll go to the village inn to-day, if you like."
"No, no; don't be so hasty. Take a week, Iris, to get your things together, and you stay that long, too, Mr. Bannard; but, of course, it isn't strange that I should want my house to myself after a time."
"Not at all, Miss Lucille," Iris smiled pleasantly, "you are quite justified. I will stay a few days, and then I shall go to New York and live with a girl friend of mine, who will be very glad to have me."
"And I will remain but a day or two here," said Bannard, "and though I may be back and forth a few times, I'll stay mostly in my New York rooms. I admit I rather want to look around here, for it seems to me that, as heirs to a large fortune of jewels, it's up to Iris and myself to look first in the most likely hiding-places for them; and where more probable than the testator's own house? Also, Miss Darrel, there will yet be much investigationhere, in an endeavor to find the murderer; you will have to submit to that."
"Of course, I shall put no obstacles in the way of the law. That detective Hughes is a most determined man. He said yesterday, just before the funeral, that to-day he should begin his real investigations."
And the detective made good his promise. He arrived at Pellbrook and announced his determination to make a thorough search of the place, house and grounds.
"That crypt business," he declared, for he had read the diary, "means a whole lot. It's no church vault, my way of thinking, it's a crypt in this here house and the jewels are there. Mark that. Also, the concealed crypt is part of or connected with the secret passage that leads into that room, where the windows are barred, and that's how the murderer got in—or, at least, how he got out."
"But—but there isn't any such crypt," and Iris looked at him imploringly. "If there were, don't you suppose I'd know it?"
"You might, and then, again, you mightn't," returned Hughes; then he added, "and then again, mebbe you do."
A painful silence followed, for the detective'stone and glance, even more than his words, hinted an implication.
"And I wish you'd tell me," he went on, to Iris, "just what that funny business about the ten cent piece means. Did your aunt tell you she was going to leave you a real diamond?"
"Yes; for years Mrs. Pell has repeatedly told me that in her will she had directed that I was to receive a small box from her lawyer, which contained a diamond pin. That is, I thought she said a diamond pin; but of course I know now that she really said, 'a dime and pin.' That is not at all surprising, for it was the delight of her life to tease people in some such way."
"But she knew youthoughtshe meant a diamond pin?"
"Of course, she did."
"She never put it in writing?"
"No; then she would have had to spell it, and spoil the joke. I don't resent that little trick, it was part of her nature to do those things."
"Did she never refer to its value?"
"Not definitely. She sometimes spoke of the valuable pin that would some day be mine, or the important legacy I should receive, or the great treasure she had bequeathed to me, but I never remember of hearing her say it was a costly gem ora valuable stone. She was always particular to tell the literal truth, while intentionally misleading her hearer. You see I am so familiar with her jests that I know all these details. It seems to me, now, that I ought to have realized from the way she said 'dime an' pin' that she was tricking me. But few people pronouncediamondwith punctilious care; nearly everybody says 'di'mond'."
"Not in New England," observed Lucille Darrel, positively.
"Perhaps not," agreed Iris. "But anyway, it never occurred to me that she meant anything else than a diamond pin, and one of her finest diamonds at that. However, as I said, it isn't that joke of hers that troubles me, so much as the thought that she left her entire collection of jewels to Mr. Bannard and myself and gave us no instructions where to find them. It isn't like her to do that. Either she has left directions, which we must find, or she fully intended to do so, and her sudden death prevented it. That's what I'm afraid of. She was of rather a procrastinating nature, and also, greatly given to changing her mind. Now, she distinctly states in her diary that the jewels are all in the crypt, and I am firmly convinced that she intended to, or did, tell where that crypt is. If we can't find any letter or other revelation, we must look for thecrypt itself, but I confess I think that would be hunting a needle in a haystack; for Aunt Ursula had a varied life, and before she settled down here she lived in a dozen different cities in many parts of the world."
"You're right, Miss Clyde," and Hughes nodded, "she prob'ly left some paper telling where that crypt is situated. Me, I believe it's in this house, but all the same, we've got to look mighty sharp. I don't want to miss it, I can tell you. Sorry, Miss Darrel, but we'll have to go through your cellar with a keen search."
"That's all right," Miss Darrel acquiesced. "I'm more than willing to allow a police hunt, but I don't want every Tom, Dick and Harry pulling my house to pieces."
"Lucky my name's Winston," said Bannard, good-naturedly. "Do you mind if I go with the strong arm of the law?"
"No," said his hostess, "and don't misunderstand me, young man. I've nothing against you, personally, but I don't admit your rights, as I do those of the police."
"I know; I understand," and Bannard followed the detective down the cellar stairs.
All this occurred the day after Ursula Pell's funeral. In the four days that had elapsed since herinexplicable death, no progress had been made toward solving the mystery. The coroner's inquest had brought out no important evidence, there were no clues that promised help, and though the police were determined and energetic, they had so little to work on that it was discouraging.
But Hughes was a man of bull-dog grit and perseverance. He argued that a mysterious murder had been committed and the mystery had to be solved and the murderer punished. That was all there was about it. So, to work. And his work began, in accordance with the dictates of his judgment, in the cellar of Ursula Pell's house.
And it ended there, for that day. No amount of scrutiny, of sounding walls or measuring dimensions brought forth the slightest suspicion, hope, or even possibility of a secret vault or crypt within the four walls. Hughes had two assistants, skilled builders both. Bannard added his efforts, but no stone or board was there that hadn't its own honest use and place.
Coal bins, ash pits, wood boxes, cupboards and portable receptacles were investigated with meticulous care, and the result was absolutely nothing to bear out the theory of a crypt of any sort or size, concealed or otherwise.
"And that settles that notion," summed upHughes, as he made his report to the two interested women. "Of course, you must see, there's two ways to approach this case—one being from the question of how the murderer got in and out of that room, and the other being who the murderer was. Of course, if we find out either of those things, we're a heap forrader toward finding out the other. See?"
"I see," said Miss Darrel, "but I should think you'd find it easier to work on your first question. For here's the room, the door, the lock, and all those things. But as to the murderer, he's gone!"
"Clearly put, ma'am! And quite true. But the room and lock—in plain sight though they are—don't seem to be of any help. Whereas, the murderer, though he's gone, may not be able to stay gone."
"Just what do you mean by that?" asked Bannard.
"Two things, sir. One is, that they do say a murderer always returns to the scene of his crime."
"Rubbish! I've heard that before! It doesn't mean a thing, any more than the old saw that 'murder will out' is true."
"All right, sir, that's one; then, again, there's achance that said murderer may not be able to stay away because we may catch him."
"That's the talk!" said Bannard. "Now you've said something worth while. Get your man, and then find out from him how he accomplished the impossible. Or, rather, the seemingly impossible. For, since somebody did enter that room, there was a way to enter it."
"It isn't the entering, you know, Mr. Bannard. Everybody was out of the living room at the time, and the intruder could have walked right in the side door of that room, and through into Mrs. Pell's sitting room. The question is, how did he get out, after ransacking the room and killing the lady, and yet leave the door locked after him."
"All right, that's your problem then. But, as I said, if hediddo it, orsincehe did do it, somebody ought to be able to find out how."
"I'll subscribe to that, somebodyoughtto be able to, but who is the somebody?"
"Don't ask me, I'm no detective."
"No, sir. Now, Mr. Bannard, what about this? Do you think that Florentine pocket-book, that was found emptied, as if by the robber, is the one that your aunt left you in her will?"
"I think it is, Mr. Hughes. But I am by no means certain. Indeed, I suppose it, only becauseit looks as if it had held something of value which the intruder cared enough for to carry off with him."
"You think it looks that way?"
"I don't," interposed Iris. "I think there was nothing in it, and that's why it was flung down. If it had had contents the thief would have taken pocket-book and all."
"Not necessarily," said Bannard. "But it's all supposition. If that's the pocket-book my aunt willed to me, it's worthless now. If there is another Florentine pocket-book, I hope I can find it. You see, Miss Darrel, we'll have to make a search of my aunt's belongings. Why all the jewels may be hidden in among her clothing."
"No," and Iris shook her head decidedly. "Aunt Ursula never would have done that."
"Oh, I don't think so, either, but wemusthunt up things. She may have had a dozen Florentine pocket-books, for all I know."
"But the will said, in the desk," Iris reminded him. "And there's no other in the desk, and that one has been there for a long time. I've often seen it there."
"You have?" said Hughes, a little surprised. "What was in it?"
"I never noticed. I never thought anything about it, any more than I thought of any otherbook or paper in Mrs. Pell's desk. She didn't keep money in it, that I know. But she did keep money in that little handbag, quite large sums, at times."
"Well," Hughes said, at last, by way of a general summing up, "I've searched the cellar, and I've long since searched the room where the lady died, and now I must ask permission to search the room above that one."
"Of course," agreed Miss Darrel. "That's your room, Iris."
"Yes; the detective is quite at liberty to go up there at once, so far as I am concerned."
The others remained below while Hughes and Iris went upstairs.
But after a few minutes they returned, and Hughes declared that all thought of any secret passage from Iris' room down to her aunt's sitting room was absolutely out of the question.
"This house is built about as complicatedly as a packing-box!" he laughed. "There's no cubby or corner unaccounted for. There are no thickened walls or unexplained bulges, or measurements that don't gee. No, sir-ee! However that wretch got out of that locked room, it was not by means of a secret exit. I'll stake my reputation on that! Now, having for the moment dismissed the question of means or method from my mind, I want toask a few questions of one concerning whom, I frankly admit, I am in doubt. Mr. Bannard, you've no objection, of course, to replying?"
"Of course not," returned Bannard, but he suddenly paled.
Iris, too, turned white, and caught her breath quickly. "Don't you answer, Win," she cried; "don't you say a word without counsel!"
"Why, Iris, nonsense! Mr. Hughes isn't—isn't accusing me——"
"I'll put the questions, and you can do as you like about answering." Hughes spoke a little more gruffly than he had been doing, and looked sternly at his man.
"Were you up in this locality on Sunday afternoon, Mr. Bannard?"
"I was not. I've told you so before."
"That doesn't make it true. How do you explain the fact that Mrs. Pell made out to you a check dated last Sunday?"
"I've already discussed that," Bannard spoke slowly and even hesitatingly, but he looked Hughes in the eye, and his glance didn't falter. "My aunt drew that check and sent it to me by mail——"
"We've proved she sent no letter to you on Sunday——"
"Oh, no, you haven't. You've only proved that Campbell didn't mail a letter from her to me."
Hughes paused, then went on slowly.
"All right, when did you get that letter?"
"How do you know I got it at all?"
"Because you've deposited the check in your bank in New York."
"And how did I deposit it?"
"By mail, from here, day before yesterday."
"Certainly I did. Well?"
But Bannard's jauntiness was forced. His voice shook and his fingers were nervously twisting.
Hughes continued sternly. "I ask you again, Mr. Bannard, how did you receive that check? How did it come into your possession?"
"Easily enough. I wrote to my hotel to forward my mail, and they did so. There were two or three checks, the one in question among them, and I endorsed them and sent them to the bank by mail. I frequently make my deposits that way."
"But, Mr. Bannard, I have been to your hotel; I have interviewed the clerk who attended to forwarding your mail, and he told me there was no letter from Berrien."
"He overlooked it. You can't expect him to be sure about such a minor detail."
"He was sure. If Mrs. Pell did mail you thatcheck in a letter on Sunday, it would have reached New York on Monday. By that time the papers had published accounts of the mysterious tragedy up here, and any letter from this town would attract attention, especially one addressed to the nephew of the victim of the crime."
"That's what happened, however," and Bannard succeeded in forcing a smile. "If you don't believe it, the burden of proof rests with you."
"No, sir, wedon'tbelieve it. We believe that you were up here on Sunday, that you received that check from the lady's own hand, that the half-burned cigarette was left in that room by you, and the New York paper also. In addition to this, we believe that you abstracted the paper of value from the Florentine pocket-book, and that you were the means of Mrs. Pell's death, whether by actual murder, or by attacking her in a fit of anger and cruelly maltreating her, finally flinging her to the floor, with murderous intent! You were seen hanging around the nearby woods about noon, and concealed yourself somewhere in the house while the family were at dinner. These things are enough to warrant us in charging you with this crime, and you are under arrest."
A shrill whistle brought two men in from outside, and Winston Bannard was marched to jail.
The shock of Bannard's arrest caused the complete collapse of Iris. Miss Darrel put the girl to bed and sent for Doctor Littell. He prescribed only rest and quiet and ordinary care, saying that a nurse was unnecessary, as Iris' physical health was unaffected and he knew her well enough to feel sure that she would recuperate quickly.
And she did. A day or two later she was herself again, and ready to follow up her determination to avenge the death of Ursula Pell.
"It's too absurd to suspect Win!" she said to the Bowens, who called often. "That boy is no more guilty than I am! Of course, he wasn't up here last Sunday! But no one will believe in his innocence until the real murderer is found. And I'm going to find him, and find the jewels, and solve the whole mystery!"
"There, there, Iris," Miss Darrel said, soothingly, for she thought the girl still hysterical, "don't think about those things now."
"Not think about them!" cried Iris, "why, whatelse can I think of? I've thought of nothing else for the whole week. It's Saturday now, and in six days we've done nothing, positively nothing toward finding the criminal."
"Perhaps it would be better not to try," suggested Mr. Bowen, gently.
"You say that because you believe Win guilty!" Iris shot at him. "Iknowhe wasn't! You don't think he was, do you, Mrs. Bowen?"
"I scarcely know what to think, Iris, it is all so mysterious. Even if Winston did commit the crime, how did he get out of the room?"
"That's a secondary consideration——"
"I don't think so," put in the rector. "I think that's the first thing to be decided. Knowing that one could speculate——"
Iris turned away wearily. Though fond of the gentle little Mrs. Bowen, she had never liked the pompous and self-important clergyman, and she rose now to greet someone who appeared at the outer door.
It was Roger Downing, who, always devoted to Iris, was now striving to earn her gratitude by showing his willingness to be of help in any way he might. He came every day, and though Iris was careful not to encourage him, she eagerly wantedto know just what he knew about Bannard's presence at Pellbrook on the day of the tragedy.
"It's this way," Downing expressed it. "Win was certainly up here last Sunday, for I saw him. Now, Iris, if you want me to say I was mistaken as to his identity, I'll say it—but, I wasn't."
"You mean, sir, you would tell an untruth?" said Mr. Bowen, severely.
"I mean just that," averred Downing; "I care far more for Miss Clyde and her wishes than I do for the Goddess of Truth. I'm sorry if I shock you, sir, but that is the fact."
Mr. Bowen indeed looked shocked, but Iris said, emphatically, "Youweremistaken, Roger, you must have been!"
"Very well, then, I was," he returned, but everyone knew he was purposely making a misstatement.
"Where was he?" said Iris, altogether illogically.
"In the woods, near the orchard fence."
"Sunday afternoon?"
"No; not afternoon. I'm not just sure of the time, but it was about noon. I was taking a long walk; I'd been nearly to Felton Falls, and was coming home to dinner. I only caught a glimpse of him, and I didn't think anything about it, until—until hesaid he hadn't been out of New York city on Sunday."
"Then, if you only caught a glimpse," Iris said quickly, "it may easily have been someone else! And it doubtless was."
"Shall I say so? Or do you want the truth?"
Iris dropped her eyes and said nothing. But Mr. Bowen spoke severely; "Cease that nonsense, Roger. Tell what you saw, and tell it frankly. The truth must be told."
"It's better to tell it anyway," declared Lucille Darrel, "truth can't harm the innocent. But it seems to me Mr. Downing may be mistaken."
"No, I'm not mistaken. Why, he wore that gray suit with a Norfolk jacket, that I've seen him wear before this summer. And he had on a light gray tie, with a ruby stickpin. The sun happened to hit the stone and I saw it gleam. You know that pin, Iris?"
Iris knew it only too well, and she knew, moreover, that when Win came up Sunday evening he wore that same suit, and the same scarf and pin. He had gone back to town the next day for other clothing, but when he had rushed to Berrien in response to Iris' summons, he had not stopped to change.
And yet, she was not ready, quite, to believeDowning's story. Suppose, in enmity to Win, he had made this all up. He might easily describe clothing that he knew Winston possessed, without having seen him as he said he had.
Iris looked at Downing so earnestly that he quailed before her glance.
"I don't believe your story at all!" she said; "you are making it up, because you hate Win, and it's absurd on the face of it! If Win came up here on Sunday at noon, he would come in for dinner, of course——"
"Not if he came with sinister intent," interrupted Downing.
"I don't believe it! You have made up that whole yarn, and let me tell you, you didn't do it very cleverly, either! Why didn't you say you saw him in the afternoon? It would have been more convincing, and quite as true!"
"I wasn't near here myself in the afternoon. But I did pass here just before twelve, and I did see him." Downing's voice had a ring of truth. "However, after this, I shall say I did not see him. I know you prefer that I should."
He looked straight at Iris, and ignored Mr. Bowen's pained exclamation.
"Say whatever you like, it doesn't matter to me," the girl returned haughtily.
"It does matter to you—and to Win. So, I shall say I was mistaken and that I did not see Winston Bannard on Sunday. I shall expect you, Mr. Bowen, and you ladies, not to report this conversation to the police. If you are questioned concerning it, you must say what you choose. But you will not be questioned, unless someone now present tattles."
Later that day, Iris had another caller. He sent up no card, but Agnes told her that a Mr. Pollock wished to see her.
"Don't go down, if you don't want to," urged Lucille, "I'll see what he wants."
But Miss Darrel's presence was not satisfactory to the stranger. He insisted on seeing Miss Clyde.
So Iris came down to find a man of pleasant manner and correct demeanor, who greeted her with dignity.
"I ask but a few moments of your time, Miss Clyde. I am Rodney Pollock, home Chicago, business hardware, but as a recreation I am a collector."
"And you are interested in my late aunt's curios," suggested Iris. "I am sorry to disappoint you, but they are not available for sale yet, and, indeed, I doubt if they ever will be."
"Don't go too fast," Mr. Pollock smiled a little, "my collection is not of rare bibelots or valuablecurios. Perhaps I'd better confide that I'm an eccentric. I gather things that, while of no real use to others, interest me. Now, what I want from you, and I am willing to pay a price for it, is the ten cent piece and the pin your aunt left to you in her will."
"What!" and Iris stared at him.
"I told you I was eccentric," he said, quietly, "more, I am a monomaniac, perhaps. But, also, I am a philosopher, and I know, that, as old Dr. Coates said, 'If you want to be happy, make a collection.' So I collect trifles, that, valueless in themselves, have a dramatic or historic interest; and I wish," he beamed with pride, "you could see my treasures! Why, I have a pencil that President Garfield carried in his pocket the day he was shot, and I have a shoelace that belonged to Charlie Ross, and——"
"What very strange things to collect!"
"Yes, they are. But they interest me. My business, hardware, is prosaic, and having an imaginative nature I let my fancy stray to these tragic mementoes of crime or disaster. I have a menu card from the Lusitania and a piece of queerly twisted glass from the Big Tom explosion. I look reverently upon the relics of sad disasters, and I value my collection as a numismatist his coins or an art collector his pictures."
"But it seems so absurd to ask for a common pin!"
"It may, but I would greatly like to have it. You see, it was an unusual gift. You didn't care for it, in fact, I have heard you indignantly spurned it."
"I did."
"They say, you expected a diamond pin, and your aunt left you a dime and pin! Is that so?"
"That is so."
"Pardon my smiling, but I think it's the funniest thing I ever heard. And I would greatly like to have that pin and that dime."
"I'm sorry to say it's impossible, as I flung them away, and I've no idea where they landed."
"If you had them would you sell them to me?"
"I'd give them to you, if I had them! Why, it was merely an ordinary dime, not an old or rare coin. And the pin was a common one."
"Yes, I know that, but the idea, you see, the strange bequest—oh, I greatly desire to have one or the other of those two things! Can't we find them? Where did you throw them?"
"The dime I remember throwing out of the window. It must have fallen in the grass, you never could find that! The pin, I tossed on the floor, I think——"
"Has the room been swept since?"
"No, it has not. It should have been, but we have been so upset in the house——"
"I quite understand. I have a home and family, and I know what housekeeping means. However, since the room has not been swept, may I look around a bit in it?"
"It is this room, the room we are in. I sat right here, when I opened the box. I threw the dime out of that window, and I flung the pin over that way. I confess to a quick temper, and I was decidedly indignant. Let us look for the pin, and if we find it you may have it."
Iris was pleasantly impressed by Mr. Pollock's manner and set him down in her mind as a ridiculous but good-natured lunatic—not really insane, of course, but a little hipped on the subject of mementoes.
At her permission, her visitor fell on hands and knees, and went quickly over the floor of the whole room. Iris with difficulty restrained her laughter at the nimble figure hopping about like a frog, and peering into corners and under the furniture.
She looked about also, but from the more dignified position of standing, or sitting on a chair or footstool.
The search grew interesting, and at last they consideredit completed. Their joint result was four pins and a needle.
Mr. Pollock presented a chagrined face.
"It may be any one of these," he said, ruefully looking at the four pins.
"That's true," Iris agreed. "But you may have them all, if you wish."
"Can't you judge which it is? See, this one is extra large."
"Then that's not it. I know it was of ordinary size. I scarcely looked at it, but I know that. Nor was it this crooked one. It was straight, I'm sure. But it may easily have been either of these other two."
"Suppose I take these two, then, and put them in my collection, with the surety that one or other is the identical pin."
"Do so, if you like," and Iris gave him a humoring smile. "Now, do you care to hunt for the dime? If you do, there's the lawn. But I won't help you, the sun is too warm."
"I think I won't hunt, or if I do, it will be only a little. I have this pin, and that is sufficient for a memento of this case. I am on my way to a house in Vermont, where I hope to get a button that figured in a sensational tragedy up there. I thank youfor being so kind and I would greatly prefer to pay you for this pin. I am not a poor man."
"Nonsense! I couldn't take money for a pin! You're more than welcome to it. And one of those two must be the one, for I'm sure there's no other pin on this floor."
"I'm sure of that, too. I looked most carefully. Good-by, Miss Clyde, and accept the gratitude of a man who has a foolish but innocent fad."
Iris bowed a farewell at the front door, and returned to the living-room smiling at the funny adventure.
Almost involuntarily she began to look over the floor again, searching for pins.
"Have you lost anything?" asked Agnes, coming by.
"No; I've been looking for a pin."
"Want one, Miss Iris? Here's one."
"No, I don't want a pin, I mean—I don't want—a pin." Iris concluded her sentence rather lamely, for she had been half inclined to tell Agnes the story of her visitor, when something restrained her.
Perhaps it was Agnes' expression, for the maid said, "Were you looking for the pin Mrs. Pell left you?"
"Yes, I was," said Iris, astonished at the query.
"I have it," Agnes went on. "I picked it up the day you threw it away."
"For gracious' sake! Why did you do that?"
"Because—that's a lucky pin. Miss Iris, your aunt had that pin for years."
"I know it; it's been years in that box Mr. Chapin held for me."
"But before that. When I first came to live with Mrs. Pell, she always wore a pin stuck in the front of her dress. Once I took it out, it looked so silly, you know. She blew me up terribly, and said if I ever disturbed her things again she'd discharge me. And I gave it back to her—I had stuck it in my own dress—and she wore it for a short time more, and then she didn't wear it. Even then, I wouldn't have thought anything much about it, but a maid who lived here before I did, said she lost a pin once that had been in the waist of Mrs. Pell's gown and they had an awful time about it."
"Did they find it?"
"I don't know. I think not. I think she took another pin for a 'Luck.' Why, Polly knew about it. She said when she heard what Mrs. Pell had left to you, that it might be the lucky pin."
"Oh, what foolishness! Well, Agnes, have you really got the pin that Aunt Ursula left to me?"
"Yes, ma'am, as soon as I saw you throw itaway, I watched my chance to go and pick it up before Polly could get it."
"Do you want to keep it?"
"Not if you want it, Miss Iris. If not, I'd like to have it. I suppose it's superstitious, but it seems lucky to me."
"Go and get it, Agnes, and let me see it."
But the maid returned without the pin.
"I can't find it, Miss Iris. I put it on the under side of my own pincushion, and there's none there now. I asked Polly and she said she didn't touch it. Where could it have gone?"
"You used it unthinkingly. It doesn't matter, there's no such thing as a lucky pin, Agnes. You can just as well take any other pin out of Aunt Ursula's cushion—take one, if you like—and call that your 'Luck.' Don't be a silly!"
Iris smiled to think that neither of the pins her strange visitor carried off with him was the right one, after all. "But," she thought, "it makes no difference, anyway, as he thinks he has it. He's sure it's one of the two he has; if there were three uncertain ones it would be too complicated. Let the poor man rest satisfied. I wonder if he found the dime."
But looking from the window she could see nosign of her late caller, and she dismissed the subject from her mind at once.
Yet she had not heard the last of it.
In the evening mail a letter came for her. It was in an unfamiliar handwriting, and was written on a single plain sheet of paper.
The note ran:
Miss Clyde,Dear Madam:I will pay you one hundred dollars for the pin left to you by your aunt. Please make every effort to find it, and lay it on the South gatepost to-night at ten o'clock. Don't let anybody see you. You will receive the money to-morrow by registered mail. No harm is meant, but I want to get ahead of that other man who is making a collection. Put it in a box, and be sly about it. I'll get it all right. You don't know me, but I would scorn to write an anonymous letter, and I willingly sign my name,
Miss Clyde,
Dear Madam:
I will pay you one hundred dollars for the pin left to you by your aunt. Please make every effort to find it, and lay it on the South gatepost to-night at ten o'clock. Don't let anybody see you. You will receive the money to-morrow by registered mail. No harm is meant, but I want to get ahead of that other man who is making a collection. Put it in a box, and be sly about it. I'll get it all right. You don't know me, but I would scorn to write an anonymous letter, and I willingly sign my name,
William Ashton.
That evening Iris told Lucille all about it.
"What awful rubbish," commented that lady. "But I know people who make just such foolish collections. One friend of mine collects buttons from her friends' dresses. Why, I'm afraid to go there, with a gown trimmed with fancy buttons; she rips one off when you're not looking! It's really a mania with her. Now two men are after your pin. Have you got it? I'd sell it for a hundred dollars, if Iwere you. And that man will pay. Those collectors are generally honest."
"No; I haven't it." And Iris proceeded to tell of Agnes' connection with the matter.
"H'm, a Luck! I've heard of them, too. Sometimes they're worth keeping. Oh, no, I'm not really superstitious, but an old Luck is greatly to be reverenced, if nothing more. If that pin was Ursula's Luck, you ought to keep it, my dear."
"But I haven't it. If it is a Luck, and if its possession would help me—would help to free Win—I'd like to see the collector that could get it away from me!"
"Oh, it mightn't be so potent as all that, but after all, a Luck is a Luck, and I'd be careful how I let one get away."
"But it has got away. And, too, I let friend Pollock go off with the idea that he had it; now, if I were to let somebody else take it, Mr. Pollock would have good reason to chide me."
"But how did this other man know about it?"
"I've no idea, unless he and Pollock are friends and compare notes."
"But how did—what's his name?—Ashton, know it was lost?"
"That's so, how did he? It's very mysterious. What shall I do?"
"Nothing at all. You can't put it on the gatepost, if you don't know where it is. But I'd certainly try to find it. Ask Polly what she knows about it."
"I will, to-morrow. She's gone to bed by now. Poor old thing, she works pretty hard."
"I know it. I'll be glad when I get a whole staff of new servants. But I'll wait till this excitement is over."
That was Miss Darrel's attitude. She had received her inheritance and selfishly took little interest in that of the other heirs.
Wearily, Iris went upstairs to her own room, and closed the door. Then she opened it again, for the night was hot and stifling. Without turning on a light, she went and sat by an open window, leaning her arms on the sill, and staring, with unseeing gaze, out into the night.
She was thinking about Bannard, and her thoughts were in a chaos. Not for a moment did she believe him guilty of his aunt's death, but she could not help a conviction that he had been at Pellbrook that Sunday afternoon. She wasted no time on the inexplicable mystery of the locked room, for, she reasoned, whoever did kill Mrs. Pell escaped afterward, so that point had no bearing on Winston's connection with the crime. Moreover, she knew, as she feared the police also knew, that Bannard was deeply in debt, and as he had received the substantial check from his aunt, and had banked the same, it was all, in a way, circumstantial evidence that was strongly indicative.
Roger Downing had seen Win around Pellbrookabout noon, or he thought he had, of that she was sure, and Roger's declaration that he would deny this was of little value, for Hughes would get it out of him, she knew.
Arrest wasn't conviction, to be sure, but—Iris resolutely put away her own growing suspicions of Bannard. She would stand by him, even in the face of evidence or testimony—she would—and then she began to speculate as to the fortune. Those gems were hidden somewhere—and without Winston to help her how was she to look for them? Knowing Ursula Pell's tricksy spirit, the jewels might be in the most absurd and unexpected place. Crypt? Where was any crypt? She inclined a little to the idea of its being in some church, not in Berrien; for with all Mrs. Pell's foolishness, Iris didn't think she would hide the treasure in any but a safe place. And too, the crypt might well be merely the vaults of some safe deposit company—in Chicago, perhaps, or New York. It was maddening! Iris thought over the events since the day of her aunt's death. The awful tragedy itself, the mystery of the unknown assailant and his manner of escape, the fearful scenes of the inquest, the funeral, and the police searchings since, and, finally, the arrest of Bannard. It seemed to Iris she couldn't stand anything more; and yet, she realized, it had but begun. Themystery was as deep as ever, the jewels were missing, perhaps would never be found, and Winston's case looked very dark against him.
"Imustfind the jewels," Iris mused, as she had done a hundred times before. "And I must do it by my wits. They are somewhere in safety—of that I'm sure, and, too, Aunt Ursula has left some hint, some clue to their hiding-place. If I'm to be of any help to Win, the first thing to do is to ferret out this matter. Then, we may be better able to trace the——"
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sight of what seemed to her to be a shadow, crossing the lawn below her. The shrubbery was dense, and the night dark, but she discerned a faint semblance of a person skulking among the trees. She sat motionless, but the shadow faded, and she could see nothing more of it. Concluding she had been mistaken, she sighed and was about to draw the blinds and make a light, when she was seized with a sudden spirit of nervous energy that impelled her todosomething—anything, rather than go to bed, where she knew she would only toss sleeplessly on the pillow.
Silently, not to disturb Miss Darrel, she crossed the hall and went downstairs. With only a vague notion of looking around, she went into her aunt's sitting room, and flashed on a light. It was thetable lamp that had been found broken on the floor at the time of the tragedy, but that now, replaced by a new electrolier, gave a pleasant, soft light. Coiling up the long green cord, lest she trip on it, Iris sank into an easy chair near the table.
Restlessly, she arose and walked about the room. Though familiar with every detail, it looked strange to her, as a room does when one is the sole occupant. She opened the wall-safe, and stared into its emptiness. She pulled open some drawers of a cabinet, looked into a few boxes, and with no definite purpose, sat down at her aunt's desk. Disinterestedly, she looked over some books and papers, but she knew them all by heart. She ran over some bundles of letters, hoping to find a penciled memorandum on the backs, that had been hitherto unnoticed.
Nothing met her eye that seemed important, and she turned from the desk, her glance falling on the cretonne window curtains that overhung the lighter lace ones.
"Come out!" she cried, and then quickly, "no,don'tcome out! Stay where you are! Who are you?"
The curtain moved very slightly, and Iris rose, and stood, holding the back of her chair. Her heart was beating wildly, for though possessed ofaverage courage, to be alone at midnight in a room of sinister memories, and see the folds of a curtain sway ever so little is, to say the least, disturbing.
"Who are you, I say!" she repeated angrily, but there was no response, and the curtain hung still.
A terror passed through her, and left her shivering, with an icy grip at her heart. Though not at all inclined toward a belief in the supernatural, there was an uncanny feeling in the atmosphere and Iris trembled with a strange, weird feeling, as of impending disaster. She edged a step backward, but as she did so the curtain was flung aside, and a man stood disclosed—a tall figure, with strong, muscular frame, and arms extended in a threatening gesture.
"Not a word!" he whispered, "not a sound!" and the glint of a small revolver flashed toward her. But she was too petrified with fear to speak, for the man was masked, and the effect of the blackavised apparition took her breath away. Only for a moment, however, and then a wave of relief surged over her. For, alarming as a human intruder may be, he is less frightful than a supernatural visitant.
The color came back to her white cheeks, and she said scornfully, "I am not afraid of you——"
"You'd better be, then," and the man movednearer to her. "I've no wish to harm you, but if you raise an alarm, I shall consider my own safety first!"
"Coward!"
"Nonsense! I don't mean before yours, you've nothing to fear. But if you're inclined to call help, I'll have to make it impossible for you to do so."
The voice was that of an educated man, but entirely unfamiliar to Iris. Her terror left her, as she realized that at least she hadn't to deal with a low-class, uncouth ruffian.
"Why should I call help, since you say I've nothing to fear?" she said, trying to speak coolly, but still watching the carefully held pistol.
"Nothing to fear if you do as I say."
"And what do you say?"
The masked figure came a little nearer. "I say——" he began, but Iris interrupted.
"Stay where you are! I am not afraid of your pistol; your voice tells me you would not shoot a defenceless woman, but I command you to keep your distance."
"My voice belies me, then," he returned coolly. "I'd shoot you quicker'n a wink, were it necessary to make my getaway. But, listen; you will be immediately unmolested, if you give me what I havecome here to get. I advise you to give it willingly, but if not—then I must get it as best I can."
"Take off your mask, won't you?" and Iris' tone was almost formal. "I know you, don't I?"
"You do not, and something tells me you never will. Pardon me, if I retain my protecting decoration——"
"Scarcely a decoration," murmured Iris, who was striving to think quickly what to do.
"Thank you; that implies your belief in a fair share of good looks on my part. But that's a matter of no moment. And time passes. I am here to ask you for a matter of no great moment after all. I want the pin that your late aunt left you in her will."
"Oh, then you are William Ashton?"
"Careful! Not so loud. Yes—I am none other than he." A mock dramatic gesture accompanied the phrase, and Iris involuntarily smiled.
"You are charming when you smile," the visitor went on. "I may say that, since I am not making a social call——"
"You seem to be, I think," Iris interrupted him.
"Far from it! You are under a distinct misapprehension. But, alas! your smiles and charms are not the prize I'm seeking. I want that pin," forthe first time he spoke a little roughly, "and I'm going to have it!"
"What under the heavens do you want of that pin?" exclaimed Iris, surprised beyond all thought of fear. She had at first supposed he was after the jewels, or money, at least.
"Never mind what for. Are you going to hand it over?"
"I suppose you are making a collection of dramatic trifles, like Mr. Pollock. It seems to be a popular pursuit, this gathering material for a miniature junk-shop!"
"So? Well, are you going to give it to me? Why didn't you put it on the gate post to-night?"
"For the very good reason that I haven't got it."
"Don't talk that useless chatter. Of course you have it."
"But I haven't. I threw it away, when the lawyer gave it to me, and——"
"No; you didn't. You only pretended to. Come; now, where is it?"
"Will you go away if I give it to you?" Iris was struck with an idea.
"If you give me your word of honor that you're giving me the right one."
This dissuaded her, for she had intended to give him one from her belt ribbon.
"I tell you I don'tknowwhere it is. Now, cease this useless interview, please, and leave me."
"I'll do nothing of the sort! You know where that pin is, and I am sure it's hidden in this room—"
"How utterly absurd you are! Why,whydo you want it? I believe you're crazy!"
"I'm not, as you'll find out! But I intend to have the pin, so make up your mind to that!" He sprang toward her, laying his automatic on a table, and with a single gesture, it seemed to Iris, he had a soft silk handkerchief tied over her mouth, and around her head, in such fashion that she couldn't utter a sound.
"I'm sorry, as I told you," he went on, in a business-like voice, "but Imustobtain that little piece of property. Will you change your mind and tell me where it is?"
Iris shook her head vigorously, meaning that she did not know where it was, but he chose to think she meant a mere negative.
"Then I'll make you!" and he took hold of her arm and twisted it. She moaned with pain, but he picked up the revolver and threatened her.
Iris was now really frightened, and realized that his gentler mood had passed, and she was in desperatedanger. She cast appealing glances at him, but he was oblivious to her piteous eyes, and demanded the pin.
Suddenly the thought came to her that the man was crazy, really a maniac, and in view of this she determined to use her wits to extricate herself from this dangerous situation. If demented, he might shoot her as likely as not, and she thought deeply and carefully what it was best to do. He was distinctly clever, as she had heard maniacs often are, so she dared not fool him too openly.
Therefore, she acted rather defiantly, until, as she had hoped, this attitude on her part brought a rough, hard twist of her slender arm, that really brought the tears to her eyes.
With a limp gesture of surrender, she nodded her head at him, while pain contorted her face.
"Sorry," he said, again, "but there's no other way. Does that mean you're going to give me the pin?"
Iris nodded acquiescence, and he stipulated, "The real one?"
Again she nodded, salving her conscience by the thought that her falsehood was told in self-defence.
"Where is it? No, you needn't speak yet, indicate where it is, and I'll get it."
Iris nodded her head toward the desk, and the man went to it. He ran his fingers lightly over the various compartments, watching her the while, and as he touched one, she nodded.
She had remembered a small packet of papers, pinned with an old and somewhat rusty pin, and she determined to pass this pin off on him, if she could make herself dramatically convincing.
"I've always thought I could be an actress," the poor child said to herself, "now's my time to make good."
So, by dint of indicative nods and glances, she easily made her visitor discover the packet and the pin. The papers were valueless, and the pin, which held a paper band round them, was an ordinary, dull, old-looking one.
It was Iris' clever play of her eyes and her hands,—that betokened a great unwillingness to part with it, but did so under duress—that succeeded in making the thief believe it was the pin he was after. He scrutinized the papers, and threw them aside.
"A good hiding-place," he said, putting the papers back where they had been. "As obvious as Poe's 'Purloined Letter.' I don't ask you if this isthepin, for your speaking countenance has told me it is. I only bid you a very good evening."
He rose quickly, and without a further glance atIris, he turned off the electric light on the table, and she heard him step softly through the living room, and out of one of the low windows that gave on to the verandah.
She sat where he had left her, not really in pain, but in some discomfort. Then, lifting her hands she managed to untie the handkerchief gag. It wasn't difficult, though the tight knot took a few moments to loosen.
She was tempted to turn on the light, and look at the silk handkerchief still in her hand, but she feared her visitor might discover the fraud and return.
She crept softly into the living room, closed and locked the window through which she had heard him go, and wondered whether it had been left unfastened or he had forced the catch. But that could wait till morning. She locked the living-room door on the hall side, for further safety, and returned to her room, determined to have additional bolts and bars attached here and there the next day.
Then she remembered the house was not hers, and though she might suggest she could not dictate.
Hours she lay awake, thinking it all over. In the security of her own room, she felt no fear and the dawn had begun to show before she slept.
"He's a crazy man," she told herself, finally,just as, at last, slumber came to her. "But it's queer the same mania attacked two people at the same time."
Next day she told Lucille Darrel the story.
"No, I don't think he was crazy," Miss Darrel said, "I think he's an agent of that other man, and they wanted to find out if you had given the first man the right pin. You see, when you made the second man—what's his name, Ashton?——"
"Yes, and the first was Pollock."
"Well, when Pollock doubted that you'd given him the right pin, he sent Ashton to find out, and then when you were so clever as to fool Ashton so fully, he thought you had been frightened into it, at last."
"But what do they want the pinfor?"
"Just as Pollock said; to add to a collection of such things. You know that dime and pin joke is in all the papers. Everybody knows about it."
"But why so desperately anxious to get the very one? If they did have another, nobody would ever be the wiser."
"Not unless you withheld the real one, and then gave it or sold it to somebody else later. That would make Pollock's pin a fraud. Now, he's sure he has the very pin."
"Well, of all rubbish! But, you're right. Isuppose friend Ashton went to the gate post, and not finding it there, he hovered around the house hoping to get in and hunt for himself."
"Just that. And he did get in—I'm not sure he wouldn't have taken something more valuable than the pin, if you hadn't caught him."
"I don't know; he didn't seem at all like an ordinary thief. Now, I'm going to see if Polly knows anything about the real pin."
It was nearly time for the Sunday dinner, and Iris, going to the kitchen, found the old cook busy with her preparations.
"Oh, don't bother me 'bout that now, Miss Iris," Polly said; "I've gotter set this custard——"
"Behave yourself, Polly! It won't hurt your old custard to take one minute to answer my question. Did you take a pin out of the under side of Agnes' pincushion?"
"Come outside here," and the cook drew Iris out to the kitchen porch. "Now," she whispered, "don't you talk so free 'bout that pin. Yes, Miss Iris, I got it, and you kin be mighty glad. That's a vallyble pin, that is, and don't you fergit it!"
"Valuable, how? And where is it?"
"Well, you know, Mrs. Pell, she set great store by that pin. Many's the time, when she's been goin'to New York or somewhere, she's said to me, 'Polly, you keep this safe till I get home,' and she'd hand me that self-same pin. And would I guard it? Well, wouldn't I!"
"But why,why, Polly, did she set such store by it?"
"It was her Luck, Miss Iris——"
"Luck, fiddlesticks! Aunt Ursula wasn't a fool! If she'd kept that pin for luck, she'd have stuck it away and left it alone."
"Now, you know there's no tellingwhatMrs. Pell would do! Anybody else might have done this or that, but there's no use sayin'shewould. She was a law unto herself. But, anyway, that pin's valuable, and it don't matter for what reason! So, I got it away from Agnes, who hasn't a mite of right to it, and saved it for you. Why, Miss Iris, didn't your aunt, time and again, say she was goin' to leave you a valuable pin? Her little joke was neither here nor there. She said she'd leave you avaluablepin—and she did!"
"You're crazy too, Polly. Well, give me the pin; let me see if I can discover its great value. Perhaps if I rub it a Slave of the Pin will appear, to grant my wishes!"
"Here it is, Miss Iris," and Polly drew a pinfrom her bodice, "but for the land's sake be careful of it! Do, now!"
"I will, honest, I will," and Iris smiled as she took the common pin from the trembling fingers of the old woman.
"Lemme keep it for you, Miss Iris, dear. Won't you?"
"Maybe I will, later, Polly. I'll enjoy my valuable possession awhile, myself, first."
Iris went around the lawn toward the side door of the house. As she went, she looked curiously at the pin and then stuck it carefully in her shirtwaist frill.
As she neared the side door, she noticed a small motor car standing there. It was empty, and even as she looked, someone came up stealthily behind her, threw a thick, dark cloth over her head, picked her up and lifted her into the little car, and drove rapidly away.
She tried to scream, but a hand was held tightly over her mouth, and try as she would she could make no sound. She felt the familiar curve as they drove through the gateway, and turned off on the road that led away from the village, and Iris realized she was being kidnapped.