Fleming Stone carried his years lightly. Except for the slight graying at his temples, no one would think that he had arrived, as he had, at the years that are called middle-aged.
But an especially interesting problem so stirred his enthusiasm and roused his energies that he grew young again, and his dark eyes fairly scintillated with eagerness and power.
"Tell me everything," he repeated, even after he had heard all the details over and over again. "Omit nothing—no tiniest point. It all helps."
They sat in the living room at Pellbrook, Miss Darrel and Iris being present, also Hughes and Lawyer Chapin.
Stone had examined the sitting room where Mrs. Pell had died, and, closing its door, had returned to the big living room, for further information on the whole subject of the crime and its subsequent events.
"The pin's the thing," he said, at last. "Everything hinges on that."
"Do you think so?" asked Mr. Chapin. "It seems to me the pin's a blind—a decoy—and the people hunting it are really after something else, of intrinsic value."
Fleming Stone looked at the lawyer, with a courteous impatience.
"No, Mr. Chapin, the pin is the thing they are after. It was for that pin that Mrs. Pell was murdered. That is why her dress was torn open at the throat, the villain was searching for that pin. That's why the desk was ransacked, the handbag explored, the pocket-book emptied—all in a desperate effort to find that seemingly insignificant pin! That is why the poor woman was tortured, maltreated, bruised and beaten, in final attempts to make her tell where the pin was. Failing, the wretch flung her to the floor, in a burst of murderous frenzy."
"That's why I was kidnapped, then," exclaimed Iris.
"Of course, and you may be again! Those people will stop at nothing! The letters asking for the pin, the caller who wanted it for his 'collection,' all represent the same master-mind, who is after the pin.
"But why?" wondered Hughes, "what do they want of the pin?"
"The pin means the jewels," declared Stone,briefly. "How, I can't say, exactly, for the moment, but the pin is the open sesame to the hiding-place of the gems, and only the possession of it will secure the treasure. We must get the pin—and then, all else will be clear sailing."
"But the pin is gone," lamented Iris.
"That is the worst phase of it all," Stone said, regretfully. "It is such a difficult thing to trace—not only so tiny, and easily lost, but so like thousands of others, that it can't readily be discerned even if seen."
"You think it's just an ordinary pin, then?" inquired Chapin.
"Absolutely, sir."
"Then why won't any other pin do as well?"
Stone looked at him keenly. "I can't answer that at present, Mr. Chapin; my theory regarding the pin, while doubtless the truth, is as yet uncertain. Now, another and equally great problem is that of the murderer's exit. From your story of the crime, I gather that the room was absolutely unenterable, except by breaking in the door, which Purdy and the chauffeur did?"
"That is true," agreed Iris; "the windows, as you can see, are strongly barred, and there is but the one door. Search has been made for secret entrancesor concealed passages, but there is nothing of the sort."
"No," said Stone, "this sort of a house is not apt to have such. If there were any, they would be easily discovered. And there were several people in this room, when the two men burst in the door?"
"Yes," said Iris. "I was here, and Polly, the cook, and the two men——"
"You are positive the murderer could not have slipped by you all, as the door flew open, and so made his escape?"
"That was utterly impossible. We were all grouped around the door and stayed so, until we entered the sitting room ourselves. There was nobody there but Aunt Ursula, herself——"
"Dead?"
"Yes, but only just dead. Polly heard her faint moans, after her loud screams, you know, before we broke in."
"And what were the words she used when she screamed out?"
"I don't know exactly, but they were cries for help, and I'm sure Polly said she called out 'Thieves!' Of course, she was unable to speak coherently."
"Now," began Stone, "to look at this one point. Her assailant had to get out or stay in, didn't he?You're sure he didn't get out, therefore he must have stayed in. A man of flesh and blood cannot go through walls, like a ghost."
"But he didn't stay in!" cried Iris. "We searched the room at once, there was nobody in it. You know there's almost no place to hide. We looked behind the window curtains, and all such places—and, too, we were in this room continuously, till others came, and no one could have gone through here without being seen."
"Nor could he get out of the barred windows. Then what became of him?"
"Ah, Mr. Stone," said Hughes, "that's the question that has puzzled us all. If you can solve that, we can begin to look for the murderer!"
"Meantime, we must assume him to be a spook? Is that it?" Stone smiled a little at the complacent Hughes.
"I don't say that, but I do call the manner of his exit an insoluble mystery."
"Ifhecould accomplish it,Ican find out how," Stone said, quietly. He had no air of bravado, but he made the statement in all sincerity.
"I believe you can!" declared Lucille. "That's why I wanted you, Mr. Stone. I've heard of your almost unbelievable cleverness, and I knew if anybodycould get to the bottom of this mystery, you could."
"I don't mind admitting that it is seemingly the most inexplicable one I ever encountered, but I shall do my best. And I want the coöperation of you all. There are many things to be told me yet; remember I've only just heard the main details, and each of you can give me light in different ways. I'll call on you for information when necessary. Also, Miss Darrel, will you extend your hospitality to my young assistant?"
"That boy?" Lucille smiled.
"Yes; Terence, his name is. He's my right-hand man and attends to a lot of detail work for me."
"He's a handful," and Lucille laughed again. "I saw him in the kitchen, wheedling round Polly, and begging for cookies."
"I'll warrant he got 'em," said Stone. "He has a way with him that is persuasive, indeed. But he won't make you any bother. Fix him up a bed in the loft, or anywhere. He's willing to rough it."
"Oh, no, he can have a decent room, of course. I'll give him one in the garage, there's a nice one next to Campbell's."
At that moment, Terence appeared at the door.
"Come in," said Stone. "I want these ladies to know you."
Awkwardly the boy entered, and blushed furiously as Stone gravely introduced him all round.
"We'll be friends, Terence," said Iris, who felt sorry for his embarrassment, and who pleasantly offered her hand.
"Thank you, ma'am, and will you please call me Fibsy, it makes me feel more at home—like."
"Fibsy! What a funny name! Because you tell fibs?"
"Yes'm! How'd you guess?" The laughing eyes met hers and the boy's stubby paw touched Iris' soft hand.
But some subtle spark passed between them, that made each feel the other a friend, and a tacit compact was sealed without a word.
"Lemme see the room?" whispered Fibsy, with a pleading look at Fleming Stone.
"Yes," and the detective rose at once, and accompanied the lad to the room of the tragedy.
The details of the death of Mrs. Pell were quickly rehearsed, and Fibsy's eyes darted round the room, taking in every detail of walls and furniture.
Hughes was astounded. Who was this insignificant boy that he should be consulted, and referredto? Why was an experienced detective, like himself, set aside, as of no consequence, while Fleming Stone watched absorbedly the face of the urchin?
"How did the murderer get out?" Hughes could not help saying, with a view to confusing the boy.
"Gee! If all you local police has concentrated your thinkers on that all this time, and hasn't doped it out yet, I can't put it over all at once! But Mr. Stone, he'll yank the heart out o' the mystery, you can just bet. Of course, 'How'd the murderer get out?' is easy enough to sit around an' say—like a flock of parrots! The thing to do is to find out how hedidget out!"
Fibsy stood, hands in pockets, in front of the mantel, looking down at the floor.
"Here's where she was lyin'?" he asked gravely, and Iris nodded her head.
Leaning down, Fibsy looked up the chimney, and Hughes laughed out.
"Back number!" he said, looking bored, "Don't you s'pose we've investigated that chimney business? A monkey couldn't get up that little flue, let alone an able-bodied man!"
"That's so, my bucko!" and Fibsy beamed on Hughes, without a trace of rancor at the elder man's scorn.
"Now about the evidence against Mr. Bannard,"Stone said to the local detective, "do I understand it's only the newspaper and cigarette that he was supposed to have left in this room——"
"Well," Hughes defended himself, "he had motive, he was seen around these parts, and he denies he was up here——"
"Never mind, I'll talk with him, please. I'll learn more from his own story."
"He isn't guilty, oh, Mr. Stone, heisn'tguilty!" Iris exclaimed, her beautiful eyes filling with tears. "Please get him out of that awful jail, can't you?"
"Let us hope so, Miss Clyde." Stone spoke abstractedly. "Where is the newspaper in question?"
"Here it is," and Iris took it from a drawer and handed it to him.
"Why, this has never been opened," exclaimed Stone.
"No," agreed Hughes, "when Bannard came up here Sunday morning on his bicycle, he had no thought for the day's news! He had other plans ahead. He carried that paper up here without reading it, and he left it here, also unopened."
"Might 'a' been opened an' folded up again," offered Fibsy. "It has, too."
"I did that," said Hughes, importantly. "I opened it, the first time I saw it, naturally one would, and I refolded it exactly as it was. It's of no furthervalue as evidence, but I made sure it hadn't been read. You can always tell if a paper's been read or not."
"Sure you can," agreed Fibsy. "Where's this Mr. Bannard live?"
"In bachelor apartments in New York," said Iris.
"I mean,wherein New York?" the boy persisted
"West Forty-fourth Street."
"He ain't the murderer," and Fibsy handed the newspaper, that he had been glancing over, back to Hughes.
"You darling!" cried Iris, excitedly, grasping Fibsy's two hands. "Of course he isn't. But how do you know?"
"Don't go too fast, Fibs," said Fleming Stone, smiling with understanding at the boy. "Shall we say the real murderer lives somewhere near Bob Grady's place?"
"Yes, sir,yes! O Lord, what a muddle!"
Again the boy stood in front of the fireplace, musing deeply.
"New?" he said, turning to the electric lamp on the nearby table.
"Yes," said Iris, puzzled at his actions. "When the man knocked Auntie down the table was overturnedand the lamp smashed to bits. We put a new one in its place."
"Oh, all right. Now where was that cigarette stub found, and how far was it burned?"
Hughes disliked to answer the boy's questions, but Fleming Stone turned expectantly toward him, so he replied, "It was on the desk, and it was about half-smoked."
"And this poker? Did it lie here, where it is now? Wasn't she hit with it?"
"Those things have all been thrashed out," replied Hughes, a little petulantly. "No, she wasn't hit with the poker, she was flung down and her head knocked onto the sharp knob on the fender."
"How do you know?"
"There's a blood stain on the brass knob, and her head was right by it. The poker is two feet away."
"Might 'a' been used, all the same," and Fibsy stared at it. "Howsumever, that don't count. We've got her dead, and we've got to find out who did it—and, so far, it wasn't Mr. Bannard."
"When will it begin to be Mr. Bannard?" said Hughes, with fine sarcasm.
"I mean," Fibsy returned, quietly, "so far, they ain't nothin' to implicate Mr. Bannard. Somethin' might turn up, though. But I don't think so. Andanyway, the problem, first of all, ain'twho, buthow. That's what we must hunt out first, eh, Mr. Stone?"
"Very well, Terence," Stone spoke abstractedly, "you attend to that, while I find the pin. It seems to me that is the most important thing——"
"Ain't that F. S. all over!" cried Fibsy, admiringly. "Puts his finger on the very spot! An' me a babblin' foolishness about findin' how the chappie got in!"
"You do certainly babble foolishness," flung out Hughes, unable to conceal his annoyance at the boy's forwardness, as he looked upon it.
"Yes, sir," and Fibsy's humble acceptance of Hughes' reproof had no tinge of irony. The boy was not conceited or bumptious, he was Stone's assistant, and took no orders save from his chief, but he never assumed importance on his own merit, nor behaved with insolence or impertinence to anyone. His only desire was to serve Fleming Stone, and an approving nod from the great detective was all the reward Terence Maguire desired.
And then, Fibsy seemed possessed of a new idea of some sort, for with a sudden exclamation and a word of excuse he ran from the room.
"Don't allow yourself to be annoyed by that boy, Mr. Hughes," said Stone; "he is a great help tome in any work. His manners are not intentionally rude, but sometimes he gets absorbed in an investigation, and he forgets what I've tried to teach him of courtesy and consideration for others. He's of humble birth, but I'm endeavoring to make him of gentlemanly behaviour. And I'm succeeding, on the whole, but in emergency the fervor of his soul runs away with the intent of his mind. For he wants to behave as I ask him to, I know that. Therefore, I forgive him much, and I must ask you to be also lenient."
Then, apparently feeling that he had done his duty by Hughes, the detective turned his attention to the room once more.
He scrutinized everything all over again. He left no minutest portion of the mantel, the table, the desk or the window draperies uninspected. A few taps at walls and partitions brought the comment, "No secret entrance, and had there been, you people must have found it 'ere this. It is a satisfaction to find so much of the investigating done already—and thoroughly done."
Hughes bridled with satisfaction, and eagerly watched Stone's further procedure.
Fibsy took his way to the garage, and began a desultory conversation with Campbell, the chauffeur.
"Who's the college perfessor?" he asked, pointinga thumb over his shoulder at a long, lank figure, hovering toward them.
"Him? He's Sam."
"Sam?"
"Yep."
"Don't babble on so! I don't want all his family history. Quit talking, can't you?"
As Campbell had said only a few monosyllables, and as he had the Scotchman's national sense of humor, he merely stared at his interlocutor.
"Oh, well, since you're in a chattering mood, spill a little more. Who's he, in America?"
"Sam? Oh, he's Agnes' half-brother, and he's half-witted."
"H'm. Sort of fractional currency! Is he—is he exclusive?"
"Eh?"
"Never mind, thank you. I'll be my own intelligence office. Hey, Sam, want some chewin' gum?"
The lackwit turned to the bright-faced boy who followed him, and favored him with a vacant stare.
"Gum, sonny, gum, you know. Chew-chew! Eh?"
Sam held out his hand, and Fibsy put a paper package in it.
"Wait a minute," he went on, leading Sam outof earshot of the garage. "What's that song I heard you singing a bit ago?"
"No, sir! Sam don't sing that more."
"Oh, yes, Sam does. It's a pretty song. Come now, I like your voice. Sam sings pretty—very pretty."
The wheedlesome tone and smile did the trick, and the foolish boy broke out in a low, crooning song:
"It is a sin to steal a pin,As well as any greater thing."
"Good!" Fibsy applauded. "Where'd you learn that, Samivel?"
"Long ago, baby days."
"And why do you sing it to-day?"
A look of fear came over Sam's face, followed by a smile of cunning. He looked like a leering gargoyle, as grotesque as any on Notre Dame.
"You know why?" he whispered.
"Oh, yes, I know why. But we won't tell anybody, will us?"
"No, not anybody."
"Who'd you steal it from?"
"From chair, he, he! From old Mister Chair."
"Yes, of course," and Fibsy's heart beat fast. "The big, fat Mister Chair?"
"Yes, big fat Mister Chair!"
"In Mrs. Pell's room?"
"Yes, yes, in Missy Pell's room."
But Fibsy began to think the clouded intellect was merely repeating words spoken to it, and he asked, "Who put pin in chair for Sam to steal?"
"Who?" and the blank, foolish face was inquiring.
"Campbell?"
"No, no! not Campbell!"
"No, no, it was Agnes."
"No! not Agnes——"
"Who, then?" Fibsy held his breath, lest he disturb the evident effort the poor lad was making to remember.
"Missy Iris," Sam said at last, "yes, Missy Iris, Missy Iris—yes, Missy——"
"There, there," Fibsy shut him up, "don't say that again. Did you see her?"
"Yes, by window. Then, Sam steal pin. It is a sin to steal a pin. It is a sin to steal a pin—it is——"
But Fibsy set to work to turn the poor befuddled mind in another direction, and after a time he succeeded.
"There are two things to find," Fleming Stone said, "the murderer and the pin. There are two things to find out, how the murderer got away, and why the pin is valuable."
Stone persisted in his belief that the pin was of value, and that in some way it would lead to the discovery of the jewels. He had read all of Ursula Pell's diary, and though it gave no definite assurance, there were hints in it that strengthened his theory. Before he had been in the Pell house twenty-four hours, he had learned all he could from the examination of the whole premises and the inspection of all the papers and books in Mrs. Pell's desk. He declared that the murderer was after the pin, and that, failing to find it, he had maltreated Ursula Pell in a fit of rage at his failure.
"She was of an irritating nature, you tell me," Stone said, "and it may well be that she not only refused to give up the pin, but teased and tantalized the intruder who sought it."
"But what usecouldthe pin be as a clue to thejewels?" Lucille Darrel asked. "I can't imagine any theory that would explain that."
"I can imagine a theory," Stone responded, "but it is merely a theory—a surmise, rather; and it is so doubtful, at best, I'd rather not divulge it at present. But the pin must be found."
"I haven't found it, but I've a notion of which way to look," said Fibsy, who had just entered the room.
It was Mrs. Pell's sitting room, and Fleming Stone was still fingering some packets of papers in the desk.
"Out with it, Fibs, for I'm going over to see Mr. Bannard now, and I want all your information before I go."
So Fibsy told of what Sam had said, and of the snatch of song he had sung.
"Good enough as far as it goes," commented Stone, "but your source of knowledge seems a bit uncertain."
"That's just it," said Fibsy. "That's why I didn't tell you this last night. I thought I'd tackle friend Boobikins this morning and see if I could get more of the real goods. But, nixie. Sam says he has the pin, but he doesn't know where it is."
"I'm afraid you're trying to draw water froman empty well, son; better try some other green fields and pastures new."
"I know it, Mr. Stone, but s'pose you just speak to the innocent before you go away. You can tell if he knows anything."
"Why should Sam steal the pin?" Iris asked, her eyes big with amazement.
"You can't tellwhatsuch people will do," Fibsy returned. "He may have seen you hiding it, as he says he did, and he may have come in and stolen it, just because of a mere whimsey in his brain. Is he around here much?"
"Quite a good deal, of late. He's fond of Agnes, and he trails her about, like a dog after its master. Aunt Ursula wouldn't have him around much when she was here, but Miss Darrel doesn't mind."
"I don't like him," said Lucille, "but I am sorry for him, and he does adore Agnes. I think he ought to be put in an institution."
"Oh, no," said Iris, "he isn't bad enough for that. He's not really insane, just feeble-minded. He's perfectly harmless."
"Bring him in here," suggested Stone.
Fibsy ran out, and came back with the half-witted boy.
"Hello, Sam," said Stone, in an off-handed,kindly way, "you're the boy for us. Now, where did you say you found that pin?"
"Here," and Sam pushed his hand down in the big chair, in the very spot where Iris had concealed it.
"Good boy! How'd you get in this room?"
"Through window in other room—walked in here!" He spoke with pride in his achievement. But at Stone's next question, a look of deep cunning came into his eyes, and he shook his head. For the detective said, "Where is the pin now, Sam?"
The lack-luster eyes gleamed with an uncanny wisdom, and the stupid face showed a stubborn denial, as he said, "I donno, I donno, I donno."
And then he broke forth again into the droning song:
"It is a sin to steal a pin,As well as any greater thing!"
This couplet he repeated, in his peculiarly insistent way, until they were all nearly frantic.
"Stop that!" ordered Lucille. "Put him out of the room, somebody. Hush up, Sam!"
"Wait a minute," said Stone, "listen, Sam, what will you take to show me where the pin is?"
"Dollars, dollars—a lot of dollars!"
"Two?" and Stone drew out his wallet.
"Yes, 'two, three, four—lot of dollars!"
"And then you'll tell us where the pin is?"
"Yes, Sam tell then—it is a sin——"
"Don't sing that again. Look, here's four nice dollar bills; now where's the pin?"
"Where?" Sam looked utterly blank. "Where's the pin? Nice pin, oh, pinny, pin, pin! Where's the pin? Oh,Iknow!"
"All right, where?"
"Forgot! All forgot. Nice pin forgot—forgot—forgot——"
"Oh, pshaw!" exclaimed Lucille, "he doesn't know anything! I don't believe he really took the pin at all. He heard Agnes and Polly talking about it and he thinks he did."
"Oh, yes, Sam took pin!" declared the idiot boy, himself. "Yes, Sam took pin—pinny-pin—beautiful day, beautiful day, beautiful—beautiful day!"
The boy stood babbling. He was not ill-looking, and the pathos of it all made him far from ridiculous. A tall, well-formed lad, his face would have been really attractive, had the light of intelligence blessed it.
But his blue eyes were vacant, his lips were not firm, and his head turned unsteadily from side to side. Yet, now and again, a gleam of cunningshowed in his expression, and Fibsy, watching such moments, tried to make him speak rationally.
"Think it up, Sam," he said, kindly. "There! You remember now! So you do! Where did you put the nice pin?"
"In the crack of the floor! In the crack of the floor! In the——"
"Yes, of course you did!" encouraged Stone. "That was a good place. Now, what floor was it? This room?"
"No, oh, nony no! Not this floor, no, no, no—'nother floor."
But all further effort to learn what floor was unsuccessful. Indeed, they didn't really think the boy had hidden the pin in a floor crack, or at least they could not feel sure of it.
"He never had the pin at all," Lucille asserted, "he heard the others talking about it, probably they said it might be in a crack, and he remembered the idea."
"Keep him on the place," Stone told them, as he prepared to go to see Bannard. "Don't let Sam get away, whatever you do."
The call on Winston Bannard was preceded by a short visit to Detective Hughes.
While the lesser detective was not annoyed oroffended at Stone's taking up the case, yet it was part of his professional pride to be able to tell his more distinguished colleague any new points he could get hold of. And, to-day, Hughes had received back from a local handwriting expert the letter that had been sent to Iris.
"And he says," Hughes told the tale, "he says, Barlow does, that that letter is in Win Bannard's writing, but disguised!"
"What!" and Stone eyed the document incredulously.
"Yep, Barlow says so, and he's an expert, he is. See, those twirly y's and those extra long-looped g's are just like these here in a lot of letters of Bannard's."
"Are these in Bannard's writing?"
"Yes, those are all his. You can see from their contents. Now, this here note signed William Ashton has the same peculiarities."
"Yes, I see that. Do you believe Bannard wrote this letter to his cousin?"
"She ain't exactly his cousin, only a half way sort of one."
"I know; never mind that now. Do you think Bannard wrote the note?"
"Yes, I do. I believe Win Bannard is after that pin, so's he can find them jewels——"
"Oh, then you think the pin is a guide to the jewels?"
"Well, it must be, as you say so. 'Tenny rate, the murderer wanted something, awful bad. It never seemed like he was after just money, or he'd 'a' come at night, don't you think so?"
"Perhaps."
"Well, say it was Win, there's nothing to offset that theory. And everything to point toward it. Moreover, there's no other suspect."
"William Ashton? Rodney Pollock?"
"All the same man," opined Hughes, "and all—Winston Bannard!"
"Oh, I don't know——"
"How you going to get around that letter? Can't you see yourself it's Bannard's writing disguised? And not very much disguised, at that. Why, look at the capital W! The one in William and this one in his own signature are almost identical."
"Why didn't he try to disguise them?"
"He did disguise the whole letter, but he forgot now and then. They always do. It's mighty hard, Barlow says, to keep up the disguise all through. They're sure to slip up, and return to their natural formation of the letters here and there."
"I suppose that's so. Shall I confront Bannard with this?"
"If you like. You're in charge. At least, I'm in with you. I don't want to run counter to your ideas in any way."
"Thank you, Mr. Hughes. I appreciate the justice and courtesy of your attitude toward me, and I thank you for it."
"But it don't extend to that boy—that cub of yours!"
"Terence?" Fleming Stone laughed. "All right, I'll tell him to keep out of your way. He'll not bother you, Mr. Hughes."
"Thank you, sir. Shall I go over to the jail with you?"
"No, I'd rather go alone. But as to this theory of yours. You blame Bannard for all the details of this thing? Do you think he kidnapped Miss Clyde last Sunday?"
"I think it was his doing. Of course, the two people who carried her off were merely tools of the master mind. Bannard could have directed them as well as anybody else."
"He could, surely. Now, here's another thing—I want to trace the house where Miss Clyde was taken. Seems to me that would help a lot."
"Lord, man! How can you find that?"
"Do you know any nearby town where there's an insurance agent named Clement Foster?"
"Sure I do; he lives over in Meadville."
"Then Meadville is very likely the place where that house is."
"How do you know?"
"I don'tknow. But I asked Miss Clyde to think of anything in the room she was in that might be indicative, and she told of a calendar with that agent's name on it. It's only a chance, but it is likely that the calendar was in the same town that the agent lives and works in."
"Of course it is! Very likely! Youarea smart chap, ain't you!"
Mr. Hughes' admiration was so full and frank that Stone smiled.
"That isn't a very difficult deduction," he said, "but we must verify it. This afternoon, we'll drive over there with Miss Clyde, and see if we can track down the house we're after."
Fleming Stone went alone to his interview with Winston Barnard. He found the young man willing to talk, but hopelessly dejected.
"There's no use, Mr. Stone," he said, after some roundabout conversation, "I'll be railroaded through. I didn't kill my aunt, but the circumstantialevidence is so desperately strong against me that nobody will believe me innocent. They can't prove it, because they can't find out how I got in, or rather out, but as there's nobody else to suspect, they'll stick to me."
"Howdidyou get out?"
"Not being in, I didn't get out at all."
"I mean when you were there in the morning!"
Winston Bannard turned white and bestowed on his interlocutor a glance of utter despair.
"For Heaven's sake!" he exclaimed, "you've been in Berrien less than two days, and you've got that, have you?"
"I have, Mr. Bannard, and before we go further, let me say that I am your friend, and that I do not think you are guilty of murder or of theft."
"Thank you, Mr. Stone," and Bannard interrupted him to grasp his hand. "That's the first word of cheer I've had! My lawyer is a half-hearted champion, because he believes in his soul that I did it!"
"Have you told him the whole truth?"
"I have not! I couldn't! Every bit of it would only drag me deeper into the mire of inexplicable mystery."
"Will you tell it all to me?"
"Gladly, if you'll promise to believe me."
"I can't promise that, blindly, but I'll tell you that I think I Shall be able to recognize the truth as you tell it. Did you write the letter signed William Ashton?"
"Lord, no! Why would I do that?"
"To get the pin——"
"Now, hold on, before we go further, Mr. Stone, do satisfy my curiosity. Is that pin, that foolish, common little pin of any value?"
"I think so, Mr. Bannard. I can't tell until I see it——"
"But man, whyseeit? It's just like any common pin! I examined it myself, and it isn't bent or twisted, or different in any way from millions of other pins."
"Quite evidently then, you've not tried to get possession of it. Your scorn of it is sincere, I'm certain."
"You may be! I've no interest in that pin, for I know it was only a fool joke of Aunt Ursula's to tease poor little Iris."
"Her joking habit was most annoying, was it not?"
"All of that, and then some! She was a terror! Why, I simply couldn't keep on living with her. She made my life a burden. And she did the same by Iris. What that girl has suffered! But the laststraw was the worst. Why, for years and years Aunt Ursula told of the valuable diamond pin she had bequeathed to Iris; at least, we thought she said diamond pin, but she said dime an' pin, I suppose."
"Yes, I know all about that; itwasa cruel jest, unless—as I hope—the pin is really of value. But never mind that now. Tell me your story of that fatal Sunday."
"Here goes, then. I was out with the boys the night before, and I lost a lot of money at bridge. I was hard up, and I told one of the fellows I'd come up to Berrien the next day and touch Aunt Ursula for a present. She often gave me a check, if I could catch her in the right mood. So, next day, Sunday morning, I started on my bicycle and came up here."
"What time did you leave New York?"
"'Long about nine, I guess. It was a heavenly day, and I dawdled some, for I wanted to get here after Iris had gone to church. I wanted to see Aunt Ursula alone, and then if I got the money, I wanted to go back to New York and not spend the day here."
"Pardon this question—are you in love with Miss Clyde?"
"I am, Mr. Stone, but she doesn't care for me. She thinks me a ne'er-do-well, and perhaps I am,but truly, I had turned over a new leaf and, if Iris would have smiled on me, I was going to live right ever after. But I knew she wasn't overanxious to see me, so I planned to make my call at Pellbrook and get away while she was absent at church."
"You reached the house, then, after Miss Clyde had gone?"
"Yes, and the servants had all gone; at least, I didn't see any of them. I went in at the front door, and I found Aunt Pell in her own sitting-room. She was glad to see me, she was in a very amiable mood, and when I asked her for some money, she willingly took her check-book and drew me a check for five thousand dollars. I was amazed, for I had expected to have to coax her for it."
"And then?"
"Then I stayed about half an hour, not longer, for Aunt Ursula, though kind enough, seemed absent-minded, or rather, wrapped in her own thoughts, and when I said I'd be going, she made no demur, and I went."
"At what time was this?"
"I've thought the thing over, Mr. Stone, and though I'm not positive I think I reached Pellbrook at quarter before eleven and left it about quarter after eleven."
"Leaving your aunt perfectly well and quite as usual?"
"Yes, so far as I know, save that, as I told you, she was preoccupied in her manner."
"You had a New York paper?"
"Yes, aHerald."
"Where did you buy it?"
"Nowhere. I have one left at my door every morning. I read it before I left my rooms, but I put part of it in my pocket, as I usually do, in case I wanted to look at it again."
"You know there was aHeraldfound in the room after the murder?"
"Of course I do, but it was not mine."
"What became of yours?"
"I haven't the least idea, I never thought of it again."
"Quite a coincidence, that aHeraldshould have been left there when your aunt took quite another New York paper!"
"I'm telling you this thing just as it happened, Mr. Stone."
Bannard spoke sternly, and with such a straightforward glance that Fleming Stone said, "I beg your pardon—proceed."
"I went down to New York," Bannard resumed, "and I stopped at the Red Fox Inn for lunch."
"At what time?"
"About noon, or a bit later. I don't know these hours exactly for I had no notion I'd be called to account for them, and I paid little heed to the time. I had the money I wanted, Aunt Ursula had given it to me willingly, I could pay off my debts, and I meant then to live a less haphazard life. I was making all sorts of plans to make good, and so gain Iris Clyde's favor, and perhaps, later, her love. I've not told her of this, for next thing I knew, I was suspected of killing my aunt!"
"But I'm told that the detectives have inquired, and the waiter who served you at the inn, says you were on your waytowardBerrien, notfromit."
"Then that waiter lies. I was on my way back to New York. I lunched at the inn, and proceeded on my way. I reached town about three or later, and when I finally got back to my rooms, I found a telegram from Iris to come right up here. I did so, and the rest of my story is public information. Now, the murderer, whoever he may have been, came to the house long after I left it. Oh, I can't say that, for he may have been hidden in the house when I was there. But, anyway, he killed Aunt Ursula about the middle of the afternoon, so I supposed my true story would be sufficient alibi. But it hasn't proved so, and now, if they say the Inn peopledeclare I was coming north instead of going south, as I was, then I can only say that the villain who did the deed is trying to make it seem to have been me."
"That's my belief," agreed Stone; "the whole affair is a carefully planned and deep-laid scheme, and concocted in a clever and diabolically ingenious brain."
Fibsy stuck to half-witted Sam like a leech. The boy's theory was that Sam had stolen the pin, as he said, and that he had hidden it with the cunning of a defective mind, in a place most unlikely to be suspected. So Fibsy cultivated the lackwit's acquaintance and established friendly relations.
Agnes rather resented Fibsy's attitude, but his wheedlesome ways won her heart, too, and the three were often together.
In fact, Fibsy enlisted Agnes on his side, and convinced her that they must learn from Sam where the pin was hidden, if he had really stolen it.
It was difficult to get information from Sam himself, for his statements were contradictory and misleading. But, by watching him closely, Fibsy hoped to catch him off guard, and make him reveal his secret.
Sam babbled of the pin continually. As Agnes said, whenever he got a new topic in his poor, disordered brain, he harped on it day and night.
"Pinny, pin, pin," he would chant, in his sing-songway, "nice pinny, pin, pin, where are you? Where are you? Nice pinny-pin, where are you?"
It was enough to drive one frantic, but Fibsy encouraged it as a means toward an end.
And one day he found Sam down on his knees poking a sharp-pointed stick in between the boards of the kitchen floor. The cracks were wide in the old house, and Fibsy held his breath as he, himself unseen, watched the idiot boy diligently digging.
But it amounted to nothing. After turning out many little piles of dust and dirt, Sam rose, and said, dejectedly, "No pinny-pin there! Where is it? Oh, oh, oh—whereis it?"
Fibsy had learned the workings of the queer mind, and he was sure now that Sam had hidden the pin, but not in a floor crack. The mention of that hiding-place had been made by Sam to turn suspicion from the real one, and then the idea had stuck in his head, and, Fibsy feared, he had forgotten the true place of concealment.
This would be a catastrophe, for it might then be the pin would never be found! So Fibsy stuck to his self-imposed task of standing by Sam, hoping for a chance revelation.
"Go ahead," Fleming Stone told him, "do all you can with Sam. I, too, feel sure he took the pinfrom the chair, where Miss Clyde put it. Find the pin, Fibsy boy, find the pin, and I'll do the rest."
Stone spent an entire morning in Mrs. Pell's room, going over her old letters and getting every possible light on her earlier life.
He learned that she had been born and reared in a small town in Maine, that she had married and gone abroad for a stay of several years, that after that she had lived in Chicago, and for the past ten years had resided at Pellbrook. Her husband had died fifteen years ago, and left her his great fortune, mostly in precious stones. Ten years ago, when she came to Berrien, she had taken all the jewels from the bankers' and had concealed them in some place of safety which was not known to any one but herself.
Her diary attested this fact, over and over again. But it gave no hint as to where the hiding-place might be.
Stone pondered long and deeply over the statement that the gems were in some crypt, and, as he thought, a great inspiration came to him.
"Of course!" he said to himself, "itisthat! It can be nothing else!"
But he confided his new theory to nobody; he only began to ask more questions.
He quizzed Iris as to her Chicago visit, andwanted a detailed account of every minute she had spent there. Then he asked her more particularly about the house where she was taken in the little motor car.
"Let's try to find it," Stone said, "let's go now."
They started off in a runabout, which Stone drove himself. Knowing that the house might be in Meadville, they went that way.
Iris was unable to verify the route, so they went there on the chance.
"A wild goose chase, probably," Stone conceded, "but we'll make a stab at it. You see, Miss Clyde, I'm getting the thing narrowed down to a few main propositions. There is, first, a master mind at the head of all the mystery. He is the murderer, he is your caller, Pollock, he is William Ashton, he is the man you saw in Chicago, who attacked you that night in Mrs. Pell's room, who kidnapped you that Sunday—in fact, he is the man at the helm. He has underlings, but I do not think they are accomplices or confederates, they are merely hirelings. Now, of course, Pollock is not this man's real name, but we will call him that for identification among ourselves. This Pollock wanted the pin, we'll say, and not only the pin, but the paper, the receipt that was in the Florentine pocket-book, and that was definitely bequeathed to Mr. Bannard. Thatpaper is quite as valuable as the pin, and he did get that."
"Why, that was just a receipt——"
"Yes, and the pin was just a pin! But we want them both, and therefore we want the man, Pollock."
"This is Meadville, but I don't see any house that could possibly be the one they took me to. It had rather high stone front steps, with brick uprights to them."
They soon went through the little town, but no such peculiarity was to be found.
"Don't give up the ship too easily," said Stone, smiling at Iris' frown of disappointment, "we haven't exhausted our resources yet."
A few inquiries showed him the office of Clement Foster, the insurance agent.
Here Iris saw a calendar exactly like the one that had been in the room where Flossie searched her.
After a little talk, Fleming Stone discovered that the agent had given out few of those calendars outside his home town, but he mentioned some names that he remembered.
"Do any of these people live in a house with high stone steps?" the detective queried.
"Lemme see; yes, Joe Young, over to East Fallville, has stone steps."
"With brick uprights?" asked Iris, eagerly.
"Yes, that's right. Nice little house it is, too. Right on Maple Avenue, the prettiest street in that village."
Thanking the agent, the inquiring pair went on their way, rejoicing. And sure enough the house of Joe Young proved to be the very one where Iris had been taken.
They went in, and after introducing himself Stone learned that Mr. Young was decidedly interested in the Pellbrook mystery, and that his father had built the well-safe in Mrs. Pell's room.
Moreover, Young had attended the inquest, and had kept in touch with all the developments so far as he could learn them.
But it was impossible to associate him with the kidnapping of Iris. He was too frankly interested and sympathetic to be suspected of playing a part or deceiving them in his attitude toward them.
"Where were you a week ago Sunday?" Stone asked him suddenly.
"Why, let me think. Oh, yes, my wife and I went over to Meadville and spent the day with her mother's folks. Yes, that's what we did. Why?"
"Who was here in this house?" Stone went on.
"Nobody. It was locked up all day."
"Has anyone a key to it, excepting yourself?"
"No, nobody. Oh, yes, my brother has, but he's in Chicago."
"Was he in Chicago then?"
"Why, yes, I s'pose so. I don't know. Why?"
"Could he have come here that day, without your knowing it?"
"Of course he could have done so, and now you speak of it, I remember my wife said she smelt cigar smoke when we came home. I didn't notice it myself."
"What's your brother's name?"
"Young, Charlie Young. Is he up to anything wrong?"
"Is he apt to be?"
"Well, I wouldn't put it past him. Charlie's a case! I've tried to do well by him, but he's been a thorn in my side for years. I'm always expecting to have him turn up in trouble of one sort or another. Yes, if you ask me, he might have been here that day, and cut up any sort of monkey-shines!"
"Do you know any young lady named Flossie?"
"Nope, never heard of any, that I remember. But Charlie has queer friends, if that's what you're getting at. Say, tell me more about the Pell case, ifyou're from Berrien. How did the murderer get out?"
"I haven't discovered that yet, but I hope to do so. I understand your father was an expert carpenter and joiner?"
"Yes, sir, he was that. He died some four years ago, but I've many examples of his fine work. Want to see some?"
But Stone could not stay to gratify the son's pride in the paternal accomplishments and the two callers left and went back to Pellbrook.
"There's the man," said Stone, briefly. "Charlie Young is the master mind behind all this deviltry."
"Did he kill Aunt Ursula?" asked Iris with angry eyes.
"I don't say that, yet," Stone said, cautiously, "but he's the man who is after the pin and——"
The detective fell into a deep study and Iris, busy with her own thoughts, did not interrupt him.
She positively identified the house as the one to which she had been taken, and if Mr. Stone said that Charlie Young was the villain who had directed the kidnapping, though he did not appear himself, she had no doubt Stone wad right.
"And I've got a letter that Charlie Youngwrote," Stone exulted. "I rather think that will go far toward freeing Mr. Bannard!"
"Oh, how?"
"I believe that Young wrote that letter signed William Ashton, and purposely made it look like the disguised hand of Winston Bannard."
"It was exactly like Win's writing, but different, too. The long-tailed letters were just like Win's."
"Yes, and that helps prove it. If Bannard had tried to disguise his own writing, the first thing he would have thought of would benotto make those peculiar long loops. Now their presence shows a clever trickster's effort to make the writing suggest Bannard at once, but also to suggest a disguised hand."
"That is clever! How can you ever catch such an ingenious villain? Shall you arrest him at once?"
"Oh, no, to suspect is not to accuse, until we have incontrovertible proof. But we'll get it! Lord, what a brain! And, yet, it may be easier to catch a smarty like that than a duller, more plodding mind. You see, he is so brilliant of scheme, so quick of execution, that he may well overreach himself, and tumble into a trap or two I shall set for him."
"Doubtless he knows you are here, doesn't he?"
"Surely; but that doesn't matter. If things are going as I hope, I'll bag him soon!"
"And yet you're not sure he's the murderer?"
"No, Miss Clyde, and I'm inclined to think he was not. However, we must proceed with caution, but we can work swiftly, and, I hope, reach the end soon. Matters are coming to a focus."
As they drove under the Pellbrookporte cochère, a strange-looking figure ran to greet them.
"Hello, darkey boy, who areyou?" sang out Stone, as the blackamoor grinned at them.
Iris stared, and then burst out, laughing. "Why, it's Terence!" she cried. "For goodness' sake, Fibsy, whathaveyou been doing?"
The boy was quite as black as any chimney sweep—indeed, as any full-blooded negro. He had run up from the cellar at the approach of the motor, and stood grinning at Iris and Stone.
"I'm on a trail," he said, "and it's a mighty dark one.
"Where will it lead you—to light?" asked Stone, smiling at the earnest, blackened face.
"I hope so, oh, Mr. Stone, I hope so! For the trail is somepin' fierce, be-lieve me!"
"Well, look out, don't get near Miss Clyde, nor me, either! You're a sight, Fibsy!"
"Yessir, I know it," and, without another word,the boy turned and disappeared down the cellar entrance.
Iris went into the house, but Stone went down to the cellar to see what Fibsy was doing. He found the boy diligently shoveling coal from one large coal bin to another. Nearby was Sam, quite as black as Fibsy, and the two were a comical sight.
Sam was seated on a box, rocking back and forth in an ecstasy of glee, and crooning, "Colole, colole, pinny-pin in colole!"
"That's what he says, Mr. Stone," Fibsy defended himself, "so if pinny-pinisin the coal-hole, I'm going to get her out! And if not, then Sam's fooled me again, that's all!"
"Terence Maguire! Do you mean to say you're going to hunt for a needle in a haystack—I mean a pin in a coal-hole?"
"Just that, sir. I'm onto friend Boobikins' curves, now, and I fully believe that his present dope is the answer! Anyway, I'm taking no chances."
"But, Fibs, it's impossible——"
"Sure it is, that's why I'm doing it. You run away and play, Mr. Stone, and let me work out this end. Didn't you tell me to find the pin? Well, I'm obeyin' orders."
Fibsy turned to his task again, and Stone watched him for a few minutes. The boy laboriouslytook up the coal in a small shovel, looked it over with sharpest scrutiny and then dumped it into the other bin.
By good luck the bins adjoined and the task was one of patience and perseverance rather than of difficulty.
Stepping toward his faithful assistant, Fleming Stone held out his hand, and said, quietly, "Put it there, Terence!"
Eagerly the little black paw slipped into the big, strong white one, and the handshake that ensued was all the reward or recognition the happy boy wanted.
Stone went upstairs again, and Fibsy whistled gaily as he continued his self-chosen task.
Sam, sitting by, cheered him on by continued assertions that hehadthrown the pin in the coal-bin, and hadnotburied it in a crack of the floor.
And, as Fibsy had declared, he knew the half-wit now well enough to feel pretty sure when he was telling the truth and when not.
Meantime, Stone was pursuing his investigations. That afternoon he drove to Red Fox Inn. He went alone, and by dint of bribes and threats he learned that Charlie Young had been there since the day of the murder, and had instructed the waiter who had served Bannard at his Sunday luncheonto say that Bannard was coming from New York and not going to it. These instructions were made as commands and were backed up by certain forcible arguments that insured their carrying out.
It became clear, therefore, that Young was interested in making it seem that Bannard was at Pellbrook on Sunday afternoon instead of Sunday morning, which latter Stone firmly believed to be the case.
Further discreet inquiry proved Young to be a frequent visitor at the inn, on occasions when he was in the locality, and that was said to be often, especially of late.
Stone went back, exultant, his brain working swiftly and steadily toward his solution of the many still perplexing points.
Later that afternoon, as it was nearing dusk, a yell from the cellar told, without words, that Fibsy's quest had succeeded.
Lucille and Iris followed Fleming Stone's flying footsteps down the stairs and found Fibsy, black but triumphant.
"Here's your pinny-pin, Mr. Stone!" he cried, exhausted from fatigue and excitement, and with perspiration streaming down his sooty face. "Don'ttell me it mayn't be the one! It's gotter be—oh, F. S., it'sgotterbe!"
Only in moments of strong excitement did Terence address his employer by anything but his dignified name, but this moment was a strenuous one, and Fibsy broke loose. Tears rolled down his cheeks, as he gave the detective a pleading look.
"All right, Fibs, I've no doubt it's the one. Pins don't grow much in coal-holes, and though it may not be——" a glance at the woeful countenance made him quickly revise his speech, "But it is! I'm sure it is," he finished, smiling kindly at the big-eyed blackamoor.
"Sure! sure!" cried Sam, capering about, "nice pinny-pin! Sam put it there after Missy Iris put it in chair."
Fleming Stone looked at the pin curiously. As he had been informed, it was a common pin, of medium size, with nothing about it to distinguish it from its millions of brothers that are lost every day, everywhere.
"I'll take it up where there's a better light on it," he said, finally. "Fibsy, you're a trump, old boy, and after you've sought the assistance that a bath-tub grants, return to the sitting room, and I'll tell you of the value of your find, in words of one syllable."
Elated beyond all words, Fibsy ran away to bathe, and the others went to the sitting room that had been Ursula Pell's.
With a very strong lens, Fleming Stone examined the pin.
"This pin is worth its weight in gold, a million times over," he said, after the briefest examination. "It explains all!—your aunt's bequest, the efforts of Young to get it—but, I say, let's wait till Fibsy comes down before I tell you the pin's secret. It's his due, after he found it for us."
"Yes, indeed, wait," agreed Lucille, "he'll be down soon. I'll go and call to him to make haste."
"Don't tell me all," said Iris to Stone, as the two were left alone, "I want to wait till Terence comes—but tell me this, will it free Winston?"
"I hope so," Stone returned, "though it's another part of the mystery. But, to my mind, Mr. Bannard is freed already."
"Let me see the pin," and Iris took it in her hand. "Why, it is a common pin! How can you say there's anything peculiar about it?"
"You'll know soon," and Stone smiled at her. "Anyway, whatever else it means, it doubtless points the way to the recovery of the fortune of jewels that was bequeathed to you and Mr. Bannard."
"I don't want the fortune unless Winston isfreed," said Iris, sadly; "if you think Charlie Young is the criminal, when are you going to get him? But you say you're not sure he killed Aunt Ursula."
"No, I'm not at all sure that he did," Stone returned gravely. "In fact, I'm inclined to think he did not."
"Then who did?"
But before Stone could answer, there was an agonized whelp from outside, as of an animal in pain.
"Goodness!" cried Iris, "that's Pom-pom's cry! Oh, my little dogsie! What has happened?"
She flew out of the room, and ran out on the lawn, from which direction she had heard the terrified cry.
Remembering the pin, as she ran, she stuck it carefully in her belt and hurried to the spot whence the sounds proceeded.
It was nearly dark now, and she sped across the grass, in fear for the safety of her pet.
Stone started to follow her, but Lucille appeared just then, and he paused to explain matters to her.
When they reached the lawn, Iris was nowhere to be seen, and the little dog, cruelly beaten, was whining in pain and distress.
Listening intently, Stone heard the last sounds of a disappearing motor car in the distance.
"Kidnapped again!" he cried, angrily. "And she's got the pin with her! Young, of course! Oh, how careless I've been!" and calling to Campbell, he ran toward the garage for a car.
"But how can you follow?" asked Lucille, distractedly, "you don't know which way they went, after the turn, do you?"
"No," said Stone, despairingly, "I don't."