The Diamond Pin

"You can't tell, Win. She may have changed her mind a dozen times."

"That's so. Let's see if there's anything about Mr. Bowen and his chalice."

"Oh, she only thought of that last Sunday."

"Don't be too sure. I shouldn't be surprised if the old chap got round her long ago, and had the matter all fixed up, and she pretended it was a new idea."

"I can't think that."

"You can't, eh? Well, listen here:

"'Sometimes I think it would be a good deed to use half of the jewels for a gift to the church. If I should take the whole Anderson lot, there would be plenty left for W. and I.'"

"What is the Anderson lot?" Iris asked.

"A certain purchase that the old man got through a dealer or an agent, named Anderson. Aunt Ursula used to talk over these things with me and, all of a sudden she shut up on the subject and never mentioned jewels to me again."

"She talked of them to me, sometimes, but never anything of definite importance. She spoke of the Baltimore emeralds, but I know nothing of them."

"They're mentioned here; see:

"'The Balto. emeralds will make a wonderful necklace for I. when she gets older. I hope I may live long enough to see the child decked out in them. I believe I'll tell her the jewels are all in the crypt.'"

"In the crypt! Oh, Win, you know Mr. Browne said he thought they were buried! Isn't a crypt a burial place in a church?"

"Yes; but a crypt may be anywhere. Any vault is a crypt, really."

"But a bank vault wouldn't be called a crypt, would it?"

"Not generally speaking, no. But, she probably changed the hiding place a dozen times since this was written."

"Well, we'll know all when we hear the will. Isn't it a queer thing to put all of one's fortune in jewels?"

"She didn't do it, her husband did. And everybody says he was a shrewd old chap. And, you know he made wonderful collections of coins and curios, and all sorts of things."

"Yes, up in the attic is a big portfolio of steel engravings. I can't admire them much, but they're valuable, Auntie said once. It seems Uncle Pell was a perfect crank on engravings of all sorts."

"I know. She gave me an intaglio topaz for a watch-fob. I didn't care much about it."

"I'm crazy to see my diamond pin. I've heard about that for years. No matter how often she changed her will, she told me, that diamond pin was always bequeathed to me. Perhaps it's her choicest gem."

"Perhaps. Listen to this, Iris:

"'I am going to New York next Tues. I shall give Winston a cheap-looking pair of gloves, but I shall first put a hundred-dollar bill in each finger.'

"She did that, you know, and I was so mad when she gave them to me I was within an ace of throwing them away. But I caught sight of a bulge in the thumb, and I just thought, in time, there might be some joke on. Didn't she beat the dickens?"

"She did. Oh, Win, you don't know how she humiliated and hurt me! But I'm sorry, now, that I wasn't more patient."

"You were, Iris! Here's proof!

"'I put a wee little toad in Iris' handbag to-day. We were going to the village, and when she opened the bag, Mr. Toad jumped out! Iris loathes toads, but I must say she took it beautifully. I bought her a muff and stole of Hud. seal to make up.'"

"Poor auntie," said Iris, as the tears came, "she always wanted to 'make up!' I believe she couldn't help those silly tricks, Win. It was a sort of mania with her."

"Pshaw! She could have helped it if she'd wanted to. Somebody's coming, put the book away now."

The somebody proved to be Miss Darrel, who, when Bannard was presented, gave him a cordial smile, and proceeded to make friendly advances at once.

"We three are the only relatives present," she said, "and we must sympathize with and help one another."

"You can help me," said Iris, who was irresistibly drawn to the strong, efficient personality, "but I fear I can't help you. Though I am more than willing."

"It is a pleasure just to look at you, my dear, you are so sweet and unspoiled."

Bannard gave Miss Darrel a quick glance. Her speech, to him, savored of sycophancy.

But not to Iris. She slipped her hand into that of her new friend, and gave her a smile of glad affection.

Luncheon was announced and after that came the solemn observances of the funeral.

As Miss Darrel had said, the three were the only relatives present. Ursula Pell had other kin, but none were nearby enough to attend the funeral. Of casual friends there were plenty, and of neighbors and villagers enough to fill the house, and more too.

Iris heard nothing of the services. Entirely unnerved, she lay on the bed in her own room, and sobbed, almost hysterically.

Agnes brought sal volatile and aromatic ammonia, but the sight of the maid roused Iris' excitement to a higher pitch, and finally Miss Darrel took complete charge of the nervous girl.

"I'm ashamed of myself," Iris said, when at last she grew calmer, "but I can't help it. There's a curse on the house – on the place – on the family! Miss Darrel, save me – save me from what is about to befall!"

"Yes, dear, yes; rest quietly, no harm shall come to you. The shock has completely upset you. You've borne up so bravely, and now the reaction has come and you're feverish and ill. Take this, my child, and try to rest quietly."

Iris took the soothing draught, and fell, for a few moments, into a troubled slumber. But almost immediately she roused herself and sat bolt upright.

"I didn't kill her!" she said, her large dark eyes burning into Miss Darrel's own.

"No, no, dear, you didn't kill her. Never mind that now. We'll find it all out in good time."

"I don't want it found out! It must not be found out! Won't you take away that detective man? He knows too much – oh, yes, he knows too much!"

"Hush, dear, please don't make any disturbance now. They're taking your aunt away."

"Are they?" and suddenly Iris calmed herself, and stood up, quite still and composed. "Let me see," she said; "no, I don't want to go down. I want to look out of the windows."

Kneeling at the front window of Miss Darrel's room, in utter silence, Iris watched the bearers take the casket out of the door.

"Poor Aunt Ursula," she whispered softly, "I did love you. I'm sorry I didn't show it more. I wish I had been less impatient. But I will avenge your death. I didn't think I could, but I must – I know I must, and I will do it. I promise you, Aunt Ursula – I vow it!"

"Who killed her?" Miss Darrel spoke softly, and in an awed tone.

"I can't tell you. But I —I am the avenger!"

It was an hour or more later when the group gathered in the living room, listened to the reading of Ursula Pell's last will and testament.

Mr. Bowen's round face was solemn and sad. Mrs. Bowen was pale with weeping.

Miss Darrel kept a watchful eye on Iris, but the girl was quite her normal self. Winston Bannard was composed and somewhat stern looking, and the servants huddled in the doorway waiting their word.

As might have been expected from the eccentric old lady, the will was long and couched in a mass of unnecessary verbiage. But it was duly drawn and witnessed and its decrees were altogether valid.

As was anticipated, the house and estate of Pellbrook were bequeathed to Miss Lucille Darrel.

The positive nod of that lady's head expressed her satisfaction, and Mr. Chapin proceeded.

Followed a few legacies of money or valuables to several more distant relatives and friends, and then came the list of servants.

A beautiful set of cameos was given to Agnes; a collection of rare coins to the Purdys; and a wonderful gold watch with a jeweled fob to Campbell.

A clause of the will directed that, "if any of the legatees prefer cash to sentiment, they are entirely at liberty to sell their gifts, and it is recommended that Mr. Browne will make for them the most desirable agent.

"The greater part of my earthly possessions," the will continued, "is in the form of precious stones. These gems are safely put away, and their whereabouts will doubtless be disclosed in due time. The entire collection is together, in one place, and it is to be shared alike by my two nearest and dearest of kin, Iris Clyde and Winston Bannard. And I trust that, in the possession and enjoyment of this wealth, they will forgive and forget any silly tricks their foolish old aunt may have played upon them.

"Also, I give and bequeath to my niece, Iris Clyde, the box tied with a blue silk thread, now in the possession of Charles Chapin. This box contains the special legacy which I have frequently told her should be hers.

"Also, I give and bequeath to my husband's nephew, Winston Bannard, the Florentine pocket-book, which is in the upper right-hand compartment of the desk in my sitting room, and which contains a receipt from Craig, Marsden & Co., of Chicago. This receipt he will find of interest."

"That pocket-book!" cried Bannard. "Why, that's the one the thief emptied!"

Everyone looked up aghast. The empty pocket-book, found flung on the floor of the ransacked room, was certainly of Florentine illuminated leather. But whether it was the one meant in the will, who knew?

After concluding the reading of the will, Mr. Chapin handed to Iris the box that had been intrusted to his care. It was very carefully sealed and tied with a blue silk thread.

Slowly, almost reverently, Iris broke the seals and opened the box. From it she took the covering bit of crumpled white tissue paper, and found beneath it a silver ten-cent piece and a common pin.

"A dime and pin!" cried Bannard instantly; "one of Aunt Ursula's jokes! Well, if that isn't the limit!"

Iris was white with indignation. "I might have known," she said, "I might have known!"

With an angry gesture she threw the dime far out of the window, and cast the pin away, letting it fall where it would.

CHAPTER VII

THE CASE AGAINST BANNARD

"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 thing through 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 me after Mrs. Pell is dead is a little too much! It's none of it her family'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 would doubtless be discovered! What a way to put it!"

"That's all so, Win," Iris spoke wearily, "but we must try to 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 investigation here, 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's tone 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 you thought she 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 or a 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 pronounce diamond with 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 the crypt 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 her inexplicable 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 up Hughes, 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 a chance 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 he did do it, or since he did do it, somebody ought to be able to find out how."

"I'll subscribe to that, somebody ought to 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 because it 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 we must hunt 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 other book 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."