 CHAPTER 1 OF THE DIMANT PIN A CERTAIN DATE Well, go to church, then, and I hope to goodness you'll come back in a more spiritual frame of mind. Though how you can feel spiritual in that flibber-tigibbit dress is more than I know. In actress, indeed, no mummer's masks have ever blotted the sketching of my family tree. The Clydes were decent, God-fearing people, and I don't propose, miss, that you shall disgrace the name. Ursula Pell shook her good-looking grey head and glowered at her pretty niece, who was getting into a comfortable, though not elaborate, motor-car. I know you didn't propose it, Aunt Ursula, returned the smiling girl. I thought up the scheme myself, and I declined to let you have credit of its origin. Discredit, you mean! And Mrs. Pell sniffed hotly. Here's some money for the contribution, play, Tyrus. See that you put it in and don't appropriate it to yourself. The slander aristocratic old hand, half-covered by a falling lace frill, dropped a coin into Iris's outheld palm, and the girl perceived it was one cent. She looked at her aunt in amazement, for Mrs. Pell was a millionaire. Then, thinking better of her impulse to voice an indignant protest, Iris got into the car. Immediately she saw a dollar bill on the seat beside her, and she knew that was for the contribution plate, and the penny was a joke of her aunts. For Ursula Pell had a queer twist in her fertile old brain that made her enjoy the temporary discumbenture of her friends whenever she was able to bring it about. To see anyone chagrined, nonplussed, or made suddenly to feel ridiculous, was to Mrs. Pell an occasion of sheer delight. To do her justice, her whimsical tricks usually ended in the gratification of the victim in some way, as now when Iris, thinking her aunt had given her a penny for the collection, found the dollar ready for that worthy cause. But such things are irritating and were particularly so to Iris Clyde, whose sense of humor was of a different trend. In fact, Iris's whole nature was different from her aunts, and therein lay most of the difficulties of their living together. For there were difficulties. The erratic, emphatic, dogmatic old lady could not sympathize with a high-strung, high-spirited young girl, and as a result there was more friction than should be in any well-regulated family. And Mrs. Pell had a decided penchant for practical jokes, than which there is nothing more abominable. But members of Mrs. Pell's household put up with these because if they didn't, they automatically ceased to be members of Mrs. Pell's household. One member had made this change. A nephew, Winston Bannard, had resented his aunt's gift of a trick cigar, which blew up and sent fine sawdust into his eyes and nose, and her follow-up of a box of perfectos was insufficient to keep him longer in the uncertain atmosphere of her otherwise pleasant country home. And now Iris Clyde had announced her intention of leaving the old roof also. Her pretext was that she wanted to become an actress, and that was true, but had Mrs. Pell been more companiable and easy to live with, Iris would have curved her histrionic ambitions. Nor is it beyond the possibilities that Iris chose the despised profession because she knew it would enrage her aunt to think of a Clyde going into the depths of ignominy which the stage represented to Mrs. Pell. For Iris Clyde at twenty-two had quite a strong will and inflexible a determination as her aunt at sixty-two, and though they often us ran parallel, yet when they crisscrossed, neither was ready to yield the fraction of a point for the sake of peace in the family. And it was after one of their most heated discussions, after a duel of words that flicked with sarcasm and rest within the window, that Iris, cool and pretty in her summer costume started for church, leaving Mrs. Pell irate and still nervously quivering from her own angry tirade. Iris smiled and waved the bill at her aunt as the car started, and then suddenly looked aghast and leaned over the side of the car as if she had dropped the dollar. But the car sped on, and Iris waved frantically, pointing to the spot where she had seemed to drop the bill, and motioning to her aunt to go out there and get it. This Mrs. Pell promptly did, only to be rewarded by a ringing laugh for Iris and a wave of the bill in the girl's hand as the car slid through the gates and out of sight. Silly thing, grumbled Ursula Pell, returning to the piazza where she had been sitting. But she smiled at the way her niece had paid her back in her own coin if a dollar bill could be considered coin. This then was the way the members of the Pell household were expected to conduct themselves. Nor was it only the family, but the servants also were frequent butts for the misplaced hilarity of their mistress. One cook left because of a tiny mouse imprisoned in her work-basket. One first-class gardener couldn't stand a scarecrow made in a ridiculous caricature of himself, and one small scullery maid objected to unexpected and startling booze from dark corners. But servants could always be replaced, and so for that matter could relatives, for Mrs. Pell had many kinsfolk and her wealth would prove a strong magnet to most of them. Indeed, as outsiders often exclaimed, why mind a harmless joke now and then? Which was all very well, for the outsiders. But it is far from pleasant to live in continual expectation of salt in one's tea or cotton in one's croquettes. So Winston had picked up his law books in sought refuge in New York City, and Iris, after a year's further endurance, was thinking seriously a following suit. And yet, Ursula Pell was most kind, generous, and indulgent. Iris had been with her for ten years, and as a child or a very young girl she had not minded her ansidiosyncrasy, had indeed rather enjoyed the foolish tricks. But of late they had bored her, and their constant recurrence so wore on her nerves that she wanted to go away and order her life for herself. The stage attracted her, though not insistently. She planned to live in bachelor apartments with a girl chum who was an artist, and hoped to find congenial occupation of some kind. She rather harped on the actress' proposition because it so thoroughly annoyed her aunt, and matters between them had now come to such a pass that they teased each other in any and every way possible. This was entirely Mrs. Pell's fault, for if she hadn't had her peculiar trait of practical joking, Iris never would have dreamed of teasing her. On the whole they were good friends, and often a few days would pass in perfect harmony by reason of Ursula not being moved by her imp of the perverse to cut up any silly prank. Then Iris would drink from a glass of water to find it had been tinctured with asafetida, or brush her hair and then learn that some drops of glue had been put on the bristles of her hairbrush. Anger or sulks of these performances were just what Mrs. Pell wanted, so Iris roared with laughter and pretended to think it all very funny, whereupon Mrs. Pell did the sulking and Iris scored. So it was not perhaps surprising that the girl concluded to leave her aunt's home and shipped for herself. It would she knew probably mean disinheritance, but after all, money is not everything, and as the old lady grew older, her pranks became more and more an intolerable nuisance. And Iris wanted to go out into the world and meet people. The neighbors in the small town of Barion where they lived were uninteresting, and there were few visitors from the outside world. Though less than 15 miles from New York, Iris rarely invited her friends to visit her because of the probability that her aunt would play some absurd trick on them. This had happened so many times, even though Mrs. Pell had promised that it should not occur, that Iris had resolved never to try it again. The best friends and advisors of the girl were Mr. Bowen, director and his wife. The two were also friends of Mrs. Pell and perhaps out of respect for his cloth, the old lady never played tricks on the Bowens. It was their habit to dine every Sunday at Pellbrook and the occasion was always the pleasantest of the whole week. The farm was a large one about a mile from the village and included old fashioned orchards and hayfields as well as more modern greenhouses and gardens. There was a lovely brook, a sunny slope of hillside and a delightful grove of maples, and added to these a long distance view of hazy hills that made Pellbrook one of the most attractive country places for many miles around. Ursula Pell sat on her veranda quite contentedly gazing over the landscape and thinking about her multitudinous affairs. I suppose I oughtn't to tease that child, she thought smiling at the recollection. I don't know what I'd do if she should leave me. When went, but land, you can't keep a young man down. A girl, now, is different. I guess I'll take Iris to New York next winter and let her have a little fling. I'll pretend I'm going alone and leave her here to keep the house and then I'll take her too. She'll be so surprised. The old lady's eyes twinkled and she fairly reveled in the joke she would play on her knees. And not to do her an injustice she meant no harm. She really thought only of the girl's glad surprise at learning she was to go and gave no heed to the misery that might be caused by the previous disappointment. A woman came out from the house to ask directions for dinner. Yes, Polly, said Ursula Pell, the bowens will dine here as usual. Dinner at one thirty sharp, as the rector has to leave at three to attend some meeting or other. Pity they had to have it on Sunday. There was some discussion of the menu and then Polly, the old cook, shuffled away and again Ursula Pell sat alone. An actress, she ruminated. My little Iris, an actress. Well, I guess not. But I can persuade her out of that foolishness, I'll bet. Why, if I can't do it any other way, I'll take her travelling. I'll—why, I'll give her her inheritance now and let her amuse herself being an heiress before I'm dead and gone. Why should I wait for that anyway? Suppose I give her the pin at once. I do it today, I believe, while the notion's on me, if I only had it here. I can get it for Mr. Chapin in a few days and then—well, then—Iris would have something to inter-ast her. I wonder how she'd like a whole king's ransom of jewels. She's like a princess herself. And then, too, that girl ought to marry and marry well. I suppose I ought to have been thinking about this before. I must talk to the Bowens. Of course, there's no one in Barion. I did think one time Wyn might fall in love with her, but then he went away, and now he never comes up here any more. I wonder if Iris cares especially for Wyn. She never says anything about him, but that's no sign, one way or the other. I'd like her to marry Roger Downing, but she snubs him unmercifully. And he is a little contrived. With Iris's beauty and the fortune I shall believe her, she could marry anybody on earth. I believe I'll take her travelling a bit, say, to California, and then spend the winter in New York and give the girl a chance. And I must quit teasing her. But I do love to see that surprised look when I play some outlandish trick on her. The old lady's eyes assumed a vixenish expression and her smile white until it was a sly, almost diabolical grin. Quite evidently she was even then planning some new and particularly disagreeable joke on Iris. At length she rose and went into the house to ride in her diary. Ursula Pell was of most methodical habits and a daily journal was regularly kept. The main part of the house was four square, a wide hall running straight through the center with doors front and back. On the left as one entered, the big living room was in front and behind it a smaller sitting room which was Mrs. Pell's own. Not that anyone was unwelcome there but it held many of her treasures and individual belongings and served as her study or office for the transaction of the various business matters in which she was involved. Frequently her lawyer was closeted with her for long confabs for Ursula Pell was greatly given to the pleasurable entertainment of changing her will. She had made more wills than lawyer Chapin could count and each in turn was duly drawn up and witnessed and the previous one destroyed. Her diary usually served to record the changes she proposed making and when the time was ripe for a new will the diary was requisitioned for direction as to the testamentary document. The wealth of Ursula Pell was enormous far more so than one would suppose from the simplicity of her household appointments. This was not due to miserliness but to her simple taste in her frugal early life. Her fortune was the bequest of her husband who now dead more than twenty years had amassed a great deal of money which he had invested almost entirely in precious stones. It was his theory and belief that stocks and bonds were uncertain whereas gems were always valuable. His collection included some world famous diamonds and rubies and a set of emeralds that were historic. But nobody say Ursula Pell herself knew where these stones were. Whether in safe deposit or hidden on her own property she had never given so much as a hint to her family or her lawyer. James Chapin knew his eccentric old client better than to inquire concerning the whereabouts of her treasure and made and remade the wills disposing of it without comment. A few of the smaller gems Mrs. Pell had given to Iris and to young Bannerd and some smaller still to more distant relatives but the bulk of the collection had never been seen by the present generation. She often told Iris that it should be all hers eventually but Iris didn't seriously bank on the promise for she knew her erratic aunt might quite conceivably will the jewels to some distant cousin in a moment of peak at her niece. For Iris was not diplomatic. Never had she catered to her aunt's whims or wishes with a selfish motive. She honestly tried to live peaceably with Mrs. Pell but of late she had begun to believe that impossible and was planning to go away. As usual on Sunday morning Ursula Pell had her house to herself. Her modest establishment consisted of only four servants who engaged additional help as their duties required. Purdy the old gardener was the husband of Polly the cook. Agnes the waitress also served as ladies made when occasion called for it. Campbell the chauffeur completed the menage and all other workers and there were a good many were employed by the day and did not live at Pellbrook. Mrs. Pell rarely went to church and on Sunday mornings Campbell took Iris to the village. Agnes accompanied them as she too attended the Episcopal service. Purdy and his wife drove an old horse and still older buckboard to a small church nearby which better suited their type of piety. Polly was a marvel of efficiency and managed cleverly to go to meeting without in any way delaying or interfering with her preparations for the Sunday dinner. Indeed Ursula Pell would have no one around her who was not efficient. Waste and waste motion were equally taboo in that household. The mistress of the place made her customary round of the kitchen quarters and finding everything in its usual satisfactory condition returned to her own sitting-room and took her diary from her desk. At half past twelve the Purdy's returned and at one o'clock the motor car brought its load from the village. Well, well, Mr. Bowen, how do you do? The hostess greeted them as they arrived. And, dear Mrs. Bowen, come right in and lay off your bonnet. The wide hall, with its tables, chairs, and mirrors offered ample accommodations for hats and wraps, and soon the party were seated on the front part of the broad veranda that encircled three sides of the house. Mr. Bowen was stout and jolly and his slim shadow of a wife acted as a sort of Greek chorus agreeing with and echoing his remarks and opinions. Conversation was in a gay and bantering key and Mrs. Pell was in high good humor. Indeed, she seemed nervously excited and a little hysterical but this was not entirely unusual and her guests fitted their mood to hers. A chance remark led to mention of Mrs. Pell's great fortune of jewels and Mr. Bowen declared that he fully expected she would bequeath them all to his church to be made into a wonderful chalice. Not a bad idea, exclaimed Ursula Pell, and one I've never thought of. I'll get Mr. Chapin over here tomorrow to change my will. Who will be the loser? asked the rector. To whom are they willed at present? That's telling, and Mrs. Pell smiled mysteriously. Don't forget you promised me the wonderful diamond pin, Auntie, said Iris, bristling up a little. What diamond pin? asked Mrs. Bowen curiously. Oh, for years Aunt Ursula has promised me a marvelous diamond pin, the most valuable of her whole collection, haven't you, Auntie? Yes, Iris, and Mrs. Pell nodded her head. That pin is certainly the most valuable thing I possess. It must be a marvel, then, said Mr. Bowen, his eyes opening wide, for I've heard great tales of the Pell collection. I thought they were all unset jewels. Most of them are, Mrs. Pell spoke carelessly, but the pin I shall leave to Iris. At that moment dinner was announced and the group went into the dining room. This large and pleasant room was in front on the right and back of it were the pantries and kitchens. A long rear extension provided the servants' quarters which were numerous and roomy. The house was comfortable rather than pretentious, and though the village folk wondered why so rich a woman continued to live in such an old-fashioned home, those who knew her well realized that the place exactly met Ursula Pell's requirements. The dinner was in harmony with the atmosphere of the home. Plentyful, well-cooked food there was, but no attempt at elaborate confections or any great formality of service. One concession to modernity was a small dish of stuffed dates at each cover, and of these Mrs. Pell spoke in scornful tones. Some of Iris's foolishness, she observed, she wants all sorts of knickknacks that she considers stylish. I don't at all, auntie, denied the girl flushing with annoyance, but when you ate those dates at Mrs. Graham's the other day you enjoyed them so much I thought I'd make some. She gave me her recipe and I think they're very nice. I do too, agreed Mrs. Bowen eating a date appreciatively and feeling sorry for Iris's discomfiture. For though many girls might not mind such disapproval, Iris was of a sensitive nature and cringed beneath her aunt's sharp words. In an endeavour to cover up her embarrassment she picked up a date from her own portion and bit off the end. From the fruits spurred at a stream of jet-black ink which stained Iris's lips, offended her palate, and spilling on her pretty white frock utterly ruined the dainty chiffon and lace. She comprehended instantly. Her aunt, to annoy her, had managed to conceal ink in one of the dates and place it where Iris would naturally pick it up first. With an angry exclamation the girl left the table and ran upstairs. End of Chapter 1 Chapter 2 OF THE DIMOND PIN by Carolyn Wells This Lebovox recording is in the public domain. 2. THE LOCKED ROOM Ursula Pell leaned back in her chair and shrieked with laughter. She will have stuffed dates and fancy fixins, will she? She cried. I just guess she's had enough of those fallows now. It quite spoiled her pretty frock, said Mrs. Bowen timidly remonstrant. That's nothing. I'll buy her another. Oh, I did that pretty cleverly, I can tell you. I took a little capsule, a long thin one, and I filled it with ink, just as you'd fill a fountain-pen. Oh, oh! Iris was so mad. She never suspected at all, and she bit into that date. Oh, oh! Wasn't it funny? I don't think it was, began Mrs. Bowen, but her husband lifted his eyebrows at her, and she said no more. Though a clergyman, Alexander Bowen was not above mercenary impulses, and the mere reference, whether it had been meant or not, to a jewelled chalice made him unwilling to disapprove of anything such an influential hostess might do or say. Iris owe so much to her aunt, the rector said smilingly. Of course she takes such little jests in good part. She'd better, and Ursula Pell nodded her head. If she knows which side her bread is buttered, she'll kiss the hand that strikes her. If it doesn't strike too hard, put in Mrs. Bowen unable to resist some slight comment. But again her husband frowned at her to keep silent, and the subject was dropped. It was fully a quarter of an hour before Iris returned, her face red from scrubbing and still showing dark traces of the ink on chin and cheek. She wore a plain little frock of white dimity, and smiled as she resumed her seat at the table. Now, Aunt Ursula, she said, if you've any more ink to spill, spill it on this dress, and not on one of my best ones. Fiddles strings, Iris. I'll give you a new dress. I'll give you two. It was well worth it to see you bite into that date. My, you look so funny. And you look funny yet. There's ink marks all over your face. Mrs. Pell shook with most irritating laughter, and Iris flushed with annoyance. I know it, Auntie, but I couldn't get them off. Never mind, it'll wear off in a few days. And, meantime, you can wrap it up in a blotter. Again, the speaker chuckled heartily at her own wit, and the rector joined her, while Mrs. Bowen with difficulty achieved a smile. She was sorry for Iris, for this sort of jesting offended the girl more than it would most people, and the kind-hearted woman knew it. But, afraid of her husband's disapproval, she said nothing, and smiled at his unspoken behest. Nora was Iris herself entirely forgiving. One could easily see that her calmly pleasant expression covered a deeper feeling of resentment and exasperation. She had the appearance of having reached her limit, and though outwardly serene was indubitably angry. Her pretty face, ludicrous because of the indelible smears of ink, was pale and strained, and her deep brown eyes smoldered with repressed rage. For Iris Clyde was far from meek. Her nature was, first of all, a just one, and to a degree retaliatory and even revengeful. Oh, I see your eyes snapping, Iris! exclaimed her aunt, delighted at the girl's annoyance. I'll bet you'll get even with me for this. Indeed I will, Aunt Ursula. In Iris's lips set in a straight line of determination, which in conjunction with the inkstains sent Mrs. Bell off into further peals of hilarity. Be careful, Iris! cautioned Mr. Bowen himself, wary. If you get even with your aunt, she may leave the diamond pin to me instead of to you. Nixie, returned Iris saucily, you've promised that particular diamond pin to me, haven't you, auntie? I certainly have, Iris. However often I change my will, that pin is always designated as your inheritance. Where is it? asked Mr. Bowen curiously. May I not see it? It is in a box and my lawyer's safe at this moment, replied Mrs. Bell. Mr. Chapin has instructions to hand the box over to Iris after my departure from this life, which I suppose you'd like to expedite, eh, Iris? Well, I wouldn't go so far as to poison you, Iris smiled, but I confess I felt almost murderous when I ran up to my room just now and looked in the mirror. I don't wonder, exclaimed Mrs. Bowen, unable to stifle her feelings longer. Tut, tut, cried the rector. What talk for Christian people? Oh, they don't mean it, said Mrs. Bell. You must take our chaff in good part, Mr. Bowen. Dinner over, the Bowen's almost immediately departed and Iris, catching sight of her disfigured face in the mirror, turned angrily to her aunt. I won't stand it, she exclaimed. This is the last time I shall let you serve me in this fashion. I'm going to New York tomorrow, and I hope I shall never see you again. Now, dearie, don't be too hard on your old auntie. It was only a joke, you know. I'll get you another frock. It isn't only the frock, Aunt Ursula. It's this horrid state of things generally. Why, I never dare pick up a thing or touch a thing without the chance of some fool stunt making trouble for me. Now, now, I will try not to do it any more. But don't talk about going away. If you do, I'll cut you out of my will entirely. I don't care. That would be better than living in a trick-house. Look at my face. It will be dazed before these stains wear off. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Aunt Ursula. The old lady looked roguishly penitent, like a naughty child. Oh, fiddle-de-de, you can get them off with what you call it soap. But I hope you won't. They make you look like a clown in a circus. Mrs. Pell's laughter had that peculiarly irritating quality that belongs to practical jokers, and Iris's sensitive nature was stung to the core. Oh, I hate you, she cried. You are a fiend in human shape. And without another word she ran upstairs to her own room. Ursula Pell looked a little chagrined, then burst into laughter at the remembrance of Iris's face as she denounced her, and then her expression suddenly changed to one of pain, and she walked slowly to her own sitting room, went in and closed the door behind her. It was part of the Sunday afternoon routine that Mrs. Pell should go to this room directly after dinner, and it was understood that she was not to be disturbed unless callers came. A little later, Polly was in the dining room arranging the sideboard when she heard Mrs. Pell's voice. It was an agonized scream, not loud, but as one greatly frightened. The woman ran through the hall and living room to the closed door of the sitting room. Then she clearly heard her mistress calling for help. But the door was locked on the inside and Polly could not open it. Help! Thieves! came in terrified accents, and then the voice died away to a troubled groaning, only to rise in a shrill shriek of Help! Quickly! and then again the moans and sighs of one in agony. Frantically Polly hurried to the kitchen and called her husband. One of her damn fool jokes muttered the old man as he shuffled toward the door of the locked room. She's locked herself in and she wants to get us all stirred up, thinking she's been attacked by thugs and in a minute she'll be laughing at us. I don't think so, said Polly dubiously, for she well knew her mistress's ways. Them yells was too natural. Old Purdy listened his ear against the door. I can hear her wrestling about a little, he said, and there, that was a faint moan, maybe she's been took with a spell or something. Let's get the door open anyway, begged Polly. If it's a joke I'll stand for it, but I'll bet you something's happened. What could happen unless she's had a stroke, and if that's it she wouldn't be calling out thieves? Didn't you say she said that? Yes, as plain as day. Then that proves she's fooling us. How could there be thieves in there and the door locked? Well, get it open, I'm plum-scared, and Polly's round face was pale with fright. But I can't. Do you want me to break it in? We'd get what foreign earnest if I done that. Run around and look in the windows, suggested Polly, and I'm going to call Miss Iris. I just know something's wrong this time. What is it? asked Iris, responding to the summons. What was that noise I heard? Mrs. Pell screamed out Miss Iris, and when I went to see what was the matter I found the door locked and we can't get in. She screamed, said Iris. Perhaps it's just one of her jokes. That's what Purdy thinks, but it didn't sound so to me. It sounded like she was in mortal danger. Here's Purdy now. Well... I can't see in the windows, was his retort. The shades is all pulled down, count of the sun. She always has them so afternoons. And you well know nobody could get in them when those are out of them. Ursula Pell's sitting-room was also her storehouse of many treasures. Collections of curios and coins left by her husband additional objects of value bought by herself made the room almost a museum, and in addition her desk contained money and important papers. Therefore she had had the windows secured by a strong steel lattice work that made ingress impossible to marauders. Two windows face south and two west, and there was but one door, that into the living room. This being locked the room was inaccessible and the drawn shades prevented even a glimpse of the interior. The windows were open, but the shades inside the steel gratings were not to be reached. There was no sound now from the room and the listener stood looking at one another uncertain what to do next. Of course it's a joke, surmised Purdy, but even so it's our duty to get into that room. If so, bees, we get laughed at for our pains. It won't be anything out of the common, and if Mrs. Pell has had a stroke or anything has happened to her we must see about it. How will you get in? asked Iris looking frightened. Bust the door down, said Purdy succinctly. I'll have to get Campbell to help. While I'm gone after him you try to persuade Mrs. Pell to come out, if she's just tricking us. The old man went off and Polly began to speak through the closed doors. Let us in Mrs. Pell, she urged. Do now or Purdy'll spoil this good door. Now what's the sense of that if you're only a fool in? Open the door, please do. But no response of any sort was made. The stillness was tragic, yet there was the possibility even the likelihood that the tricky mistress of the house would only laugh at them when they had forced an entrance. Of course it's her foolishness, said Agnes who had joined the group. She spoke in a whisper, not wanting to brave a reprimand for impertinence. What does she care for having a new door made, if she can get us all soured up over nothing at all? Iris said nothing. Only a faint almost imperceptible tinge remained of the ink stains on her face. She had used vigorous measures and had succeeded in removing most of the disfigurement. Campbell returned with Purdy. Oh now, Miss Pell, come out of there. He weedled. Do now. It's a sin and a shame to bust in this here heavy door. Likewise it ain't no easy matter, know-how. I'm not sure me and Purdy can do it. Please, Mrs., unlock the door and save us all a lot of trouble. But no sound came in answer. Let's all be awful still, suggested Purdy, for quite a time, and see if she don't make some move. Accordingly each and every one of them scarcely breathed and the silence was intense. I can't hear a sound, said Campbell at last, his ear against the keyhole which was nearly filled by its own key. I can't hear her breathing. You're sure she's in there? Of course, said Polly. Didn't I hear her screaming? I tell you we got to get in. Joke or no joke, we got to. You're right, said Campbell looking serious. I got ears like a hawk and I bet I'd hear her breathing if she was in there. Come on, Purdy. The door was thick and heavy but the lock was a simple one, not a bolt, and the efforts of the two men splintered the jam and released the door. The sight revealed was overwhelming. The woman screamed and the men stood aghast. On the floor lay the body of Ursula Pell and a glance was sufficient to see that she was dead. Her face was covered with blood and a small pool of it had formed near her head. Her clothing was torn and disordered and the whole room was in a state of chaos. The table was overturned and the beautiful lamp that had been on it lay in shattered bits on the floor. A heavy handled poker belonging to the fire set was lying near Mrs. Pell's head and the contents of her writing desk were scattered in mad confusion on chairs and on the floor. A secret cupboard above the mantle, really a small concealed safe was flung open and was empty. An empty pocketbook lay on one chair and an empty handbag on another. But these details were lost sight of in the attention paid to Mrs. Pell herself. She's dead, she's dead, wailed Polly. It wasn't a joke of hers, it was really robbers. She called out thieves and helped several times. Oh, if I'd got you men in sooner. But good land, Polly, cried Campbell, what do you mean by thieves? How could anybody get in here with the door locked? Or if he was in, how could he get out? Maybe he's here now, and Polly gazed wildly about. We'll soon see. And Campbell searched the entire room. It was not difficult, for there were no alcoves or cupboards. The furniture was mostly curio cabinets, treasure tables, the few chairs and a couch. Campbell looked under the couch and behind the window curtains, but no intruder was found. Mighty curious, said old Purdy, scratching his head, how in blazes could she scream murder and thieves when there wasn't no one in here? And how could anyone be in here with her and get out, leaving that air door locked behind him? She was murdered all right, declared Campbell. Look at them bruises on her neck. See, her dress is door open at the throat. What kind of villain could have done that? Gosh, it's fierce! Iris came timidly forward to look at the awful sight. Unable to bear it, she turned and sank on the couch, completely unerved. Get a doctor, shall I? asked Campbell, who was the most composed of them all. What for? asked Purdy. She's dead as a doornail, poor soul. But yes, I suppose it's the proper thing. And we ought to get the crowner and not touch nothing till he comes. The coroner, Iris's eyes stared at him. What for? Well, you see, Miss Iris, it's customary when there's a murder. But she couldn't have been murdered, impossible. Who could have done it? It's-it's an accident. I wish I could think so, Miss Iris. And Purdy's honest old face was very grave, but you look around. See, there's been robbery. Look at that, their empty pocket-book and empty bag. And the way she's been... hit. Why, see them marks on her chest. She's fair black and blue, and her skirt's tore. Good Lord! cried Polly, her pocket's tore out. She always had a big pocket inside each dress-skirt, and this one's been... why, it's been cut out. There could be no doubt that the old lady had been fearfully attacked, nor could there be any doubt of robbery. The ransacked desk, the open safe, the cut-out pocket, added to the state of the body itself, left no room for theories of an accident or self-destruction. Holler, for the doctor, commanded Purdy instinctively taking the helm. You telephone him, Campbell, and then he'll see about the coroner, or whoever he wants. And I think we ought to call up Mr. Bowen. What say, Miss Iris? Mr. Bowen, why? Oh, I don't know. It seems sort of decent, that's all. Very well, do so. I... I suppose I ought to telephone to Mr. Bannerd. Sure, you ought to, but let's get the people up here first, then you can get long distance to New York afterward. Once over the first shock of horror, Purdy's sense of responsibility asserted itself, and he was thoughtful and efficient. All of you go out to this room, he directed. I'll take charge of it till the police get here. This is a mighty strange case, and I can't see any light as to how it could have happened. But it did happen. Poor Miss Bell is done for, and I'll stand guard over her body till somebody with more authority gets here. You, Agnes, be ready to wait on the door. And Polly, you look after Miss Iris. Campbell, you telephone like I told you. Submissively they all obeyed him. Iris, with an effort, rose from the couch and went out to the living room. There she sat in a big chair and stared at nothing until Polly watching became alarmed. Be calm now, Miss Iris. Do be calm. She urged stupidly. Hush up, Polly, I am calm. Don't say such foolish things. You know I'm not the sort to faint or fly into hysterics. I know you ain't Miss Iris, but you're so still and queer like. Who wouldn't be? Polly, explain it. What happened to Aunt Ursula? Do you think? Miss Iris, they ain't no explanation. I'm a quick thinker I am, and I tell you there ain't no way that murderer, for there sure was a murderer, could have got in that room or got out with that door locked. Then she killed herself. No, she couldn't possibly have done that. You know yourself she couldn't. When she screamed thieves, the thieves was there. Now how did they get away? They ain't no secret way in and out that I know. I've lived in this house too many years to be fooled about its building. It's a mystery, that's what it is, a mystery. Will it ever be solved? And Iris looked at old Polly as if inquiring of a symbol. Landchild, how do I know? I ain't no seer. I suppose some of those smart detectives can make it out, but it's beyond me. Oh Polly, they won't have detectives, will they? Sure they will, Miss Iris. They'll have to. Now I'm through with the telephone. Said Campbell, reappearing. Shall I get New York for you, Miss? No, said Iris, rising. I'll get the call myself. End of Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Of the Diamond Pin by Carolyn Muelles This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. 3 The Evidence of the Checkbook Winston Bannerd's apartments in New York were comfortable though not luxurious. The Caxton Annex catered to young bachelors who were not millionaires but who liked to live pleasantly, and Bannerd had been contentedly a sconce there ever since he had left his aunt's home. He had always been glad he had made the move, for the city life was far more to his liking than the village ways of Barion, and if his law practice could not be called enormous it was growing and he had developed some real ability. Of late he had fallen in with a crowd of men much richer than himself, and association with them had led to extravagance in the matter of carts for high stakes, motors of high cost, and high living generally. The high cost of living is undeniable, and Bannerd not infrequently found himself in financial difficulties of more or less depth and importance. As he entered his rooms Sunday evening about seven he found a telegram and a telephone notice from the hotel office. The latter merely informed him that Barion Connecticut had called him at four o'clock. The telegram read, For heaven's sake come up here at once, Aunt Ursula is dead. It was signed Iris and Bannerd Reddit standing by the window to catch the gleams of fading daylight. Then he sank into a chair and read it over again, though he now knew it by rote. He was not at all stunned. His alert mind traveled quickly from one thought to another, and for ten minutes his tense strained position, his set jaw and his occasionally winking eyes, betokened successive cogitations on matters of vital importance. Then he jumped up, looked at his watch, consulted a timetable, and not waiting for an elevator ran down the stairs through that atmosphere of Sunday afternoon quiet, which is perhaps nowhere more noticeable than in a city hotel. A taxi cab, a barely caught train, and before nine o'clock Winston Bannerd was at the Barion railroad station. Campbell was there to meet him, and as they drove to the house Bannerd sat beside the chauffeur that he might learn details of the tragedy. But I don't understand, Campbell, Bannerd said. How could she be murdered alone in her room with the door locked? Did she, didn't she, kill herself? But the chauffeur was closed-mouthed. I don't know, Mr. Bannerd, he returned. It's all mighty queer, and the detective told me not to gossip or chatter about it at all. But my stars, man, it isn't gossip to tell me all there is to tell. But there's nothing to tell. The bare facts you know, I've told you those. As do the rest, the police or Miss Iris must tell you. You're right, agreed Bannerd. I'm glad you are not inclined to guess or surmise. There must be some explanation, of course. How about the windows? Well, you know those windows, Mr. Bannerd. They're as securely barred as the ones in the bank and more so. Ever since Mrs. Bell took that room for her treasure room, about eight or ten years ago, they've been protected by still lattice work and that's untouched. That settles the windows and there's only the one door, and that, Purdy and I broke open. Now that's all I know about it. Bannerd relapsed into silence, and Campbell didn't speak again until they reached the house. Oh, I'm so glad you've come. Was the first greeting to the young man as he entered the hall at Pellbrook? It was spoken by Mrs. Bowen, who had been with Iris ever since she was summoned by telephone that afternoon. It's all so dreadful. The doctors are examining the body now, and the coroner is here and two detectives, and Iris is so queer. The poor little lady quite broke down in her relief at having someone to share her responsibility. Isn't Mr. Bowen here? Bannerd said as he followed her into the living room. No, he had to attend service. He'll come after church. Here is Iris. The girl did not rise at Bannerd's approach, but sat, looking up at him, her face full of inquiry. Where have you been, she demanded. Why didn't you come sooner? I telegraphed at four o'clock. I telephoned first, but they said—they said you were out. I was. I only came in at seven, and then I found your messages and I caught the first train possible. It doesn't matter, said Iris wearily. There's nothing you can do. Nothing anybody can do. Oh, when it's horrible! Of course it is, Iris, but I'm so in the dark, tell me all about it. Oh, I can't. I can't seem to talk about it. Mrs. Bowen will tell you. The little lady told all she knew, and then one of the detectives appeared to question Bannerd. He explained his presence and told who he was and then asked to go into his aunt's sitting-room. Not just now, said the man whose name was Hughes, the doctors are busy and there with the coroner. Why so late? asked Bannerd. What have they been doing all the afternoon? Dr. Lytel came at once, explained Mrs. Bowen. He's her own doctor, you know. But that coroner Dr. Timkin never got here till this evening. Why, here's Mr. Chapin. Charles Chapin, who was Mrs. Pell's lawyer, entered and also Mr. Bowen, so there was quite a group in waiting when the doctors came out of the closed room. It is the strangest case imaginable, said coroner Timkin, his face white and terrified. There's not the least possibility of suicide, and yet there's no explanation for a murder. Why do you say that? asked Chapin, who had heard little of the details. The body is terribly injured. There are livid bruises on her chest, shoulders and upper arms. There are marks on her wrists as if she had been bound by ropes and similar marks on her ankles. Incredible! cried Mr. Chapin. Bound? The marks can mean nothing else. They are as if cords had been tightly drawn and on one ankle the stalking is slightly stained with blood. What? exclaimed Mrs. Bowen. Yes, and the flesh beneath the stain is abraded around the ankle and the skin broken. The other ankle shows slight marks of the cord, but it did not cut into the flesh on that side. Her wrists, too, show red marks and indentations as of cords. It is inexplicable. But the bruises pursued Mr. Chapin and the awful wound on her face. There is no doubt that she was attacked for the purpose of robbery. Moreover, the thief was looking for something in particular. It is clear that he stole money or valuables, but the state of the desk and safe prove a desperate hunt for some paper or article of special value. Also, the pocket cut and torn from the skirt proves a determination to secure the treasure. As we reconstruct the crime, the intruder intimidated Mrs. Bell by threats and by physical violence, tied her while search was made through her room, and then in a rage of disappointment flung the old lady to the floor where she hit her head on a sharp pointed brass knob of the fender. This penetrated her temple and caused her death. These things are facts. Also, the state of the room, the overturned table and chairs, the broken lamp, the ransacked desk and safe, all these are facts. But what theory can account for the disappearance of the murderer from the locked room? There was no answer until Detective Hughes said, I've always been told that the more mysterious and insoluble a crime seems to be, the easier it is to solve it. You have, eh? Return the corner. Then get busy on this one. It's beyond me. Why, that woman's wrist is sprained if not broken. She has some internal injuries and she was suffering from shock and fright. The attack was diabolical. It may be that the murder was unpremeditated, but the mauling and bruising of the old lady was the work of a strong man and a hardened wretch. Why didn't she scream sooner? asked Hughes who was listening intently. He had been detailed on other duties while his confrayer investigated the scene of the crime. Gagged, probably? answered Timkin. There are slight marks at the corners of her mouth which indicate a gag was used for a time at least. How long was it? He said abruptly turning to Iris that your aunt was in that room alone. I mean alone so far as you knew. I don't know. I was up in my room all the time after dinner and I don't know what time it was when they called me. I seem to have lost all track of time. Don't bother the girl, said Mrs. Bowen. Polly, you tell about the time. The servants were in and out of the room now clustered at the doorway, now hurrying off on errands and back again. It must have been about half past three when I heard her scream, said Polly, or maybe a bit earlier, but not much. I was in the dining room setting the sideboard to rights after dinner and I heard her holler. And you went to the door at once. Yes, just as quick as I could, but the door was locked. Was that usual? Yes, sir. She often locks it when she takes a nap Sunday afternoons. And then I went and called Birdie and we couldn't get in. Yes, I know about the barred windows and so on. Did you hear any further sounds from Mrs. Bell? Some. Sort of moving around in faint moanings. But the truth is, we thought she was a fool in us. Fooling you? Yes, sir. Mrs. Bell, she was great for choking. Many's the time she's hollered, help Polly, and when I'd get there she'd laugh fit to kill at me. She was that way, sir. She was always fooling us. Is this true? asked Timkin, turning to the others. They all corroborated Polly's statements. Even Chapin, the lawyer, told of jests and tricks his wealthy client had played on him and Winston Banner declared he had suffered so much from his aunt's whims that he had been forced to move away. And you, Miss Clyde, did she so tease you? Indeed she did, said Iris. I think I was her favourite victim. Scarcely a day passed that she did not annoy and distress me by some practical joke. You know about the ink, this noon, she turned to Mrs. Bowen. Yes, said that lady, but she looked grave and thoughtful. But surely, pursued the coroner, one could tell the difference between the screams of a victim in mortal agony and those of a jest. No, sir. And Polly shook her head. Mrs. Pell was that clever. She'd make you think that she'd been hurt awful when she was just tricking you. But anyway, sir, me and Bertie, we did all we could and we couldn't get in. Then Campbell, he come and helped to break down the door. And you're sure the murderer couldn't have slipped through as he opened the door. Not a chance, spoke up Campbell. We smashed it open, the lock just splintered out of the jam, as you can see for yourself, and we all gathered in a clump on this side. No, sir, the room was quiet as death and empty, save for Mrs. Pell herself. And she was dead then. Yes, sir, asseverated Bertie solemnly. I ain't no doctor, but I made sure she was dead. She died within a minute or so, she was most as warm as in life, and the blood was still a-flowing from her head where she was struck. Did you move anything in the room? No, sir, only so much as was necessary to get round. The table that was upset had electric clamp on it, which had a long dangling green cord, because it was put in after the regular wiring was done. I coiled up that air cord and picked up the pieces of broken glass so we could step around. But I left the bag and pocketbook and all just where they was flung. And the litter from the desk all over the floor, I didn't touch that neither, nor I didn't touch the body. Bertie's voice faltered and his old eyes failed with tears. You did well, commended the coroner nodding his head kindly at him. Just one more question. Was Mrs. Pell in her usual good spirits yesterday? Did she do anything or say anything that seemed out of the ordinary? No. And Bertie shook his head. I don't think so. Do you, Polly? Not that I noticed, said his wife. She cut up an awful trick on Miss Iris, but that wasn't to say unusual. What was it? And the coroner listened to an account of the date with ink in it. The story was told by Mrs. Bowen as Iris refused to talk at all. A pretty mean trick, was the coroner's opinion. Didn't you resent it, Miss Clyde? She did not, spoke up the rector in a decided way. Miss Clyde is a young woman of too much sense and also of too much affection for her dear aunt to resent a good humor jest. Good humor jest, exclaimed Hughes, going some, a jest like that, spoil in a young girl's pretty Sunday frock. Never mind Hughes, reproved Timkin, we're not judging Mrs. Bell's conduct now. This is an investigation, a preliminary inquiry rather, but not a judgment seat. Miss Clyde, I must ask that you answer me a few questions. You left your aunt's presence directly after your guests had departed. Within a few moments of their leaving. She was then in her usual health and good spirits. So far as I know. Any conversation passed between you? Only a little? Amicable? What do you mean by that? Friendly, affectionate, not quarrelsome. It was not exactly affectionate as I told her I was displeased at her spoiling my gown. Ah, and what did she say? That she would buy me another. Did that content you? I wasn't discontented, I was annoyed at her unkind trick and I told her so. That is all? Of course that is all. Again interrupted Mr. Bowen. I can answer for the cordial relationship between aunt and niece and I can vouch for the fact that these married guests didn't really stir up dissension between these two estimable people. Why, only today Mrs. Bell was dilating on the wonderful legacy she meant to bestow on Miss Clyde. She also referred to a jeweled chalice for my church, and I am sure these remarks were in no way prompted by any thought of immediate death. On the contrary, she was in gayer spirits than I have ever seen her. I think she was overexcited, said Mrs. Bowen thoughtfully. Don't you, Iris? She was giggling in an almost hysterical manner, it seemed to me. I didn't notice, said Iris wearily. Aunt Ursula was a creature of moods. She was grave or gay without a parent reason. I put up with her silly jokes usually, but today's performance seemed unnecessary and unkind. However, it doesn't matter now. No, declared Winston Bannard, and it does no good to rake over the old lady's queer ways. We all know about her habit of playing tricks and I, for one, don't wonder that Polly thought she screamed out to trick somebody. Nor does it matter. If Polly hadn't thought that, she couldn't have done any more than she did to get into that room as soon as possible. Could she now? No, agreed the coroner. Nor does it really affect our problem of how the murder was committed. Let me have a look into that room, said Bannard suddenly. You are detective, asked Timkin. Not a bit of it, but I want to see its condition. Come on in, said the other. They've put Mrs. Pell's body on the couch, but except for that nothing's been touched. Hughes went in with Bannard and the coroner, and the three men were joined by lawyer Chapin. Silently they took in the details. The still figure on the couch with face solemnly covered seemed to make conversation undesirable. Hughes alertly moved about, peering at things, but touching almost nothing. Bannard and Mr. Chapin stood motionless, gazing at the evidences of crime. Got a cigarette, whispered Hughes to Bannard, and mechanically the young men took out his case and offered it. The detective took one and then continued his minute examination of the room and its appointments. At last he sat down in front of the desk and began to look through such papers as remained in place. There were many pigeonholes and compartments, which hailed small memorandum books and old letters and stationary. Hughes opened and closed several books and then suddenly turned to Bannard with this question. You haven't been up here today, have you, Mr. Bannard? I mean, before you came up this evening. No, certainly not, was the answer, and the man looked decidedly annoyed. What are you getting at, Mr. Hughes? Oh, nothing. Where have you been all day, Mr. Bannard? In New York City. Not been out of it. I went out this morning for a bicycle ride, my favorite form of exercise. Am I being quizzed? You are. You state that you were not up here in this room this afternoon about three o'clock. I certainly do affirm that, why? Because I observe here on the desk a half-smoked cigarette of the same kind you just gave me. And you think that is incriminating evidence? A little far-fetched, Mr. Hughes. Also on this chair is a New York paper of today's date, and not the one that is usually taken in this house. Indeed. But Winston Bannard had turned pale. And, continued Hughes holding up a checkbook, this last stub in Mrs. Pell's checkbook shows that she made out to you to-day a check for five thousand dollars. What? cried Mr. Chapin. Yes, sir, a check stub in Mrs. Pell's own writing dated to-day. Where is that check, Mr. Winston Bannard, and when did you get it? And why did you kill your aunt afterward? What were you searching this room for? Come, sir, speak up. End of Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Of the Diamond Pin by Carolyn Wells This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. 4. Timkin and his inquiries You must be out of your mind, Mr. Hughes, said Bannard, but as a matter of fact he looked more as if he himself were demented. His face wore a wild frightened expression and his fingers twitched nervously as he picked at the edge of his coat. Of course I haven't been up here today before I came this evening. That New York Herald was never in my possession. Because I live in New York City I'm not the only one who reads the Herald. But your aunt subscribed only to the Times, where did that Herald come from? I'm sure I don't know. It must have been left here by somebody, I suppose. And this half-burned cigarette of the same brand as those you have in your pocket case? Other men smoke those, too, I assume. Well, then, the check with this stub shows to have been drawn to-day to you. Where is that? Not in my possession. If my aunt made that out to me it was doubtless for a present and she may have sent it to me in a letter, in which case it will reach my city address tomorrow morning, or she may have put it somewhere up here for safe keeping. Almost unlikely, said Mr. Chapin shaking his head, did Mrs. Bell send any letters for the post office today? Does anyone know? Campbell was called and he said that his mistress had given him a number of letters to mail when he took Miss Clyde to church that morning. Was one of them directed to Mr. Bannert? Asked Hughes. How should I know? Said the chauffeur, turning red. Oh, it's no crime to glance at the addresses on envelopes, said Hughes, encouragingly. Curiosity may not be an admirable trait but it isn't against the law and it will help us a lot if you can answer my question. Then no, sir, there wasn't and Campbell looked ashamed but positive. And there was no other chance for Mrs. Bell to mail a letter to-day, went on Hughes. No, sir, none of us have been to the village since and the post office closes at noon on Sunday anyhow. All that proves nothing, said Bannert impatiently. If my aunt drew that check to me it is probably still in this room somewhere and if not it is quite likely she destroyed it in a sudden change of mind. She has done that before in my very presence. You know, Mr. Chapin, how uncertain her decisions are. That's true, the lawyer agreed. I've drawn up papers for her often only to have her tear them up before my very eyes and demand a document of exactly opposite intent. So you see, insisted Bannert who had regained his composure, that check means nothing, the New York newspaper is not incriminating and the cigarette is not enough to prove my guilty presence at the time of this crime. Unless the police force of Baryon can do better than that, I suggest getting a worthwhile detective from the city. Hughes looked angrily at the speaker but said nothing. That is not a bad suggestion, said Chapin. This is a big crime and a most mysterious one. It involves the large fortune of Mrs. Bell which I happened to know was mostly invested in jewels. These gems she has so secretly and securely hidden that even I have not the remotest idea where they are. Is it not conceivable that they were in that wall safe and have been stolen by the murderer? Good Lord! exclaimed Hughes. I didn't know she kept her fortune here. Nor do I know it, returned Chapin. But doubtless something of value was in that safe now empty and I only surmise that it may have been her great collection of precious stones. Have you her will? asked Banner de Bruppley. Yes, her latest one, replied Chapin. You know she made a new one on the average of once a month or so. Who inherits? I don't know. A box bequeathed to Miss Clyde and a something similar to you probably contain her principal bequest. This house, however, she has left to another relative and there are other bequests. I do not deny the will is that of an eccentric woman, as will be shown at its reading in due time. That's all right, broke in the corner. But what I'm interested in is catching the murderer and solving the mystery of his getting in, supplemented Hughes. She might have let him in, assumed Timkin. All right, but how did he get out? That's the mystery, mused Chapin. I can see no light on that question whatever. Can you, Winston? No, said Bannard shortly. There is no secret entrance to this room. Of that, I am positive. And with the windows barred and those people at the door, as it was broken open, there seems no explanation. Oh, Shah, said Timkin. That's all for future consideration. The lady couldn't have killed herself. Somebody got in and the same somebody got out. It's up to the detectives to find out how. If a human being could do it and did do it, another human being can find out how. But let us get at the possible criminal. Motive is the first consideration. The heirs are always looked upon as having Motive, said lawyer Chapin. But in this case, I feel sure the principal heirs are misclied and Mr. Bannard, and I cannot suspect either of them. Iris, ridiculous, exclaimed Bannard. For Heaven's sake, don't drag her name in. Where is Miss Clyde's bedroom? asked Hughes suddenly. Directly above this room, returned Bannard. Are you going to suggest that she came down here by a concealed staircase and maltreated her aunt in this ferocious manner? Mr. Hughes, do confine yourself to theories that at least have a slight claim to common sense. And yet, when the coroner held his inquest next day, more than one who listened to the evidence leaned toward the suggestion of Iris Clyde's possible connection with the crime, the girl's own manner was against her, or rather against her chance of gaining the sympathies of the audience. The inquest was held in Pellbrook. The big living room was filled with interested listeners who also crowded the hall and drifted into the dining room. The room where Mrs. Spell had died was closed to all, but curiosity seekers hovered around it outside and inspected the steel-protected windows and discoursed wisely of secret passages and concealed exits. As the one known to have last spoken with her aunt, Iris was closely questioned. But her replies were of no help in getting at the truth. She admitted that she and her aunt quarreled often and agreed that that was the real reason she had decided to go to New York to live. But her answers were curt, even angry at times, and her manner was haughty and resentful. Great emphasis was laid by the coroner on the tenor of the last words that passed between Iris and her aunt. The girl admitted that they were quarrelsome words, but declared she did not remember exactly what had been said. Something in the expression of the maid Agnes caught the eye of the coroner and he suddenly turned to her, saying, Did you overhear this conversation? Taken aback by the unexpected question Agnes stammered. Yes, sir, I did. Where were you? In the dining room clearing the table. Where was Miss Clyde? In the hall just about to go upstairs. And Mrs. Bell? In the hall by the living-room door. Why were they in the hall? Mr. and Mrs. Bowen had just left, and the ladies had said goodbye to them at the front door, and then they stood talking to each other a few moments. What were they talking about? Agnes hesitated, but on further insistence of the coroner, she said. Miss Iris was complaining to Mrs. Bell about her habit of playing tricks. Was Miss Clyde angry at her aunt? She sounded so. Certainly I was, broken Iris. I had stood that foolishness just as long as I could. You are not the witness for the moment, Miss Clyde, said the coroner severely. Agnes, what did Mrs. Bell say to her niece in response to her chiding? She only laughed and said that Miss Iris looked like a circus clown. Then what did Miss Clyde say? She said that Mrs. Bell was a fiend in human shape and that she hated her. Then she ran upstairs and went into her own room and slammed the door. Have you any reason to think, Agnes, that there is any secret mode of connection between Mrs. Bell's sitting-room and Miss Clyde's bedroom directly above it? Why, no, sir, I never heard of such a thing. Absurd! Broken Winston bannered. Utterly absurd. If there were such a thing, it could certainly be discovered by your expert detectives. There isn't any, declared Hughes positively. I've sounded the walls and examined the floor and ceiling, and there's not a chance of it. The way the murderer got out of that locked room is a profound mystery, but it won't be solved by means of a secret entrance. Yet what other possibility can be suggested, went on Timkin thoughtfully. And the connection needn't be directly with Miss Clyde's room. Suppose there is a sliding-wall panel or an exit to the cellar in some way. But there isn't, insisted Hughes. I'm not altogether ignorant of architecture and there is no such thing in any part of that room. Moreover, how could any outsider come to the house get in and get into that room without any member of the household seeing his approach? The two women's servants were in the house but Campbell the chauffeur and Purdy the gardener were out of doors and could have seen anyone who came in at the gate. Might not the intruder have entered while the family was at dinner and concealed himself in Mrs. Bell's sitting-room until she went in there after dinner? Possibly, agreed Hughes, but in that case how did the intruder get out? And that was the sticking-point with every theory. No one could think of or imagine any way to account for the exit of the criminal. Mrs. Bell had undoubtedly been murdered. Her injuries were not self-inflicted. She had been brutally maltreated by a strong, angry person before the final blow had killed her. The overturned table and the ransacked room, the empty pocketbook and handbag, were the work of a desperate thief and it really seemed absurd to connect the name of Iris Clyde with such conditions. More plausible was the theory of Bannerit's guilt, but again, how did he get away? There is a possibility of locking a door from the outside, said Coroner Timkin. I've thought of that, returned Hughes, but it wasn't done in this case. I've tried to lock that door from outside with a pair of nippers and the lock is such that it can't be done. And, too, Polly heard Mrs. Bell screams at the moment of her murder. The criminal couldn't have run out and locked the door outside and gone through this room without having been seen by someone. You were in the dining room, Polly. Yes, sir, and I ran right in here. There was no time for anybody to get away without my seeing him. The facts, as testified to, were so clear-cut and definite that there seemed little to probe into. It was a deadlock. Mrs. Bell had been robbed and murdered. Apparently there was no way in which this could have been done and yet it had been done. The two who could be said to have a motive were Iris Clyde and Winston Bannert. It might even be said that they had opportunity, yet it was clearly shown that they could not have escaped unseen. Bannert was further questioned as to his movements on Sunday. He declared that he had risen late and had gone for a bicycle ride, a recreation of which he was fond. Where did you ride? asked Timkin. Up Broadway and along its continuation as far as Red Fox Inn. That's about halfway up here. I know it. I stopped there for lunch in about noon and after that I returned to New York. You lunched at the inn at noon. Shortly after twelve I think it was. The inn people will verify this. They know you. Not personally, but doubtless the waiter who served me will remember my presence. And after lunch in you returned to the city. I did. Reaching your home at what time? Oh, I didn't go to my rooms until about twilight. It was a lovely day and I came home slowly, stopping here and there when I passed a bit of woods or a pleasant spot to rest. I often spent a day in the open. You had your newspaper with you? I did. What won? The Herald. But even as Bannert said the words, he caught himself and looked positively frightened. Ah, yes. There is even now a Herald of yesterday's date in Mrs. Pell's sitting-room. But that isn't mine. That—that one isn't unfolded. I mean, it hasn't been unfolded. You can see that by its condition. Mine I read through and refolded it untidily, even inside out. Fine talk, said Timkin with a slight sneer, but it doesn't get you anywhere. That New York paper, that cigarette end, and that check-stub seem to me to need pretty strict accounting for. Your explanations are glib, but a little thin. I don't see how you got out of the room or Ms. Clyde either, but that consideration would apply equally to any other intruder. And we have no other direction in which to look for the person who robbed Mrs. Pell. Leave Ms. Clyde's name out, said Bannert shortly. If you want to suspect me, go ahead, but it's too absurd to fasten it on a woman. Perhaps you both know more than you've told. I don't, declared Iris, her eyes snapping at the implication. I was angry at my aunt. I've told you the truth about that, but I didn't kill her, nor did her nephew. Because we are her probable heirs does not mean that we're her murderers. Your protestation doesn't carry much weight, said Timkin coldly. We're after proofs, and we'll get them yet. Mr. Bowen, will you take the stand? The rector somewhat ponderously acquiesced, and the coroner put some questions to him, which, like the preceding queries, brought little new light on the mystery. But one statement roused a slight wave of suspicion toward Iris Clyde. This was the assertion that Mrs. Pell had said she would call her lawyer to her the next day to change her will. With what intent? asked Timkin. She promised that she would have all her jewels set into a chalice and present it to me for my church. Oh, she didn't mean that, Mr. Bowen, Iris exclaimed. Why didn't she? She said it, and I have no reason to think she was not sincere. She may have meant it when she said it, put in lawyer Chapin, but she was likely to change her mind before she changed her will. That's mere supposition on your part, objected Mr. Bowen. But I know my late client better than you do. She changed her will frequently, but her fortune was always left to her relatives, not to any institution or charity. She said that she had never thought of it before, Mr. Bowen related, but that she considered it a fine idea. Oh, then you proposed it, said Timkin. Yes, I did, replied the clergyman. I suggested it half-jestingly, but when Mrs. Bell Aquiest with evident gladness, I certainly hoped she would put at least part of her fortune into such a good cause. You heard this discussion, Miss Clyde, asked the coroner. Of course I did. It occurred at the dinner table. And were you not afraid your aunt would make good her promise? She didn't really promise. Afraid, then, that she would carry out the minister's suggestion. I didn't really think much about it. If you mean did I kill her to prevent such a possibility, I answer I certainly did not. And so the futile inquiry went on. Nobody could offer any evidence that pointed toward a solution of the mysterious murder. Nobody could fasten the crime on anyone or even hint a suggestion of which way to look for the criminal. Sam Torrey, a brother of Agnes the maid, testified that he had seen a strange man prowling round the Pell House Sunday morning, but as the lad was reputed to be of a defective mind and as the tragedy occurred on Sunday afternoon little attention was paid to him. Roger Downing, a young man of the village, said he saw a stranger near Pellbrook about noon. But this too meant nothing. No testimony mentioned a stranger or any intruder near the Pell Place in the afternoon. The Bowens had left the House at about three, and Polly Herder Mistress screamed less than half an hour later. No one could fix the time exactly, but it was assumed to be about 20 or 25 minutes past the hour. This meant, the coroner pointed out, that the murderer acted rapidly, for to upset the room as he had done while the Mistress of the House was bound and gagged watching him, then afterward, as Timkin reconstructed the crime, to torture the poor woman in his efforts to find the jewels or whatever he was after, and then, in a final frenzy of hatred, to dash her to the floor and kill her by knocking her head on the point of the fender, all meant the desperate speedy work of a double-dyed villain, as to his immediate disappearance which took place between the time when he dashed her to the floor and when Purdy broke in the door, the coroner was unable to offer any explanation whatever. to the coroner's jury, and after some discussion they returned the inevitable verdict of murder by person or persons unknown. Some of them preferred the phrase, causes unknown, but others pointed out that the physical causes of Mrs. Pell's death were only too evident. The question was, who was the perpetrator of the ghastly deed? And so the foreman somewhat importantly announced that the deceased met her death at the hands of persons unknown and in most mysterious and inexplicable circumstances, but recommended that every possible effort be made to trace any connection that might exist between the tragedy and the heirs to the fortune of the deceased. A distinct murmur of disapproval sounded through the room, yet there were those who wagged dissenting heads. The inquest had been a haphazard affair in some ways. Barion was possessed of only a limited force and its head, Inspector Clair, was a man whose knowledge of police matters consisted of an education beyond his intelligence. Moreover, the case itself was so weirdly tragic, so out of all reason or belief that the whole force was at its wit's end. The blue coats at the doors of Pellbrook were as interested in the village gossip as the villagers themselves. And though entrance was difficult, most of the influential members of the community were assembled to hear the inquiry into this strange matter. There were so few material witnesses, those who were questioned knew so little and more than all, the mystery of the murder in the locked room was so baffling that there was, of course, no possibility of other than an open verdict. It's all very well, said the Inspector pompously, to bring in that verdict. Yes, that's all very well. But the murderers must be found. A crime like this must not go unpunished. It's mysterious, of course, but the truth must be ferreted out. We're only at the beginning. There is much to be learned beside the meager evidence we have already collected. The mass of people had broken up into small groups, all of whom were confabbing with energy. There were several strangers present, for the startling details of the case, as reported in the city papers, had brought a number of curious visitors from the Metropolis. One of these, a quiet-mannered middle-aged man, edgner to where the Inspector was talking to Bannert and Iris Clyde. Hughes was listening, also Mr. Bowen and Mr. Chapin. It's this way, the Inspector was saying in his unpolished manner of speech, we've got her alive at three, talking to her niece, and we've got her dying at half-past three and calling for help. Between those two stated times, the murderer attacked her, manhandled her pretty severely and flung her down to her death, besides ransacking the room and stealing nobody knows what or how much. Seems to me a remarkable affair like that ought to be easier to get at than a simple everyday robbery. It ought to be, I think, too, said the stranger in a mild, pleasant voice. May I ask how you're going about it? Who are you, sir? asked Claire. You got any right here. A reporter? No, not a reporter. A humble citizen of New York City, not connected with the police force in any way. But I'm interested in this mystery, and I judge you have in mind some definite plan to work on. Mollified, even flattered at the man's evident faith in him, the Inspector replied, Yes, sir, yes, I may say I have. Perhaps not for immediate disclosure. No, not that. But I have a pretty strong belief that we'll yet round up the villains. He'll assume more than one person, then. I think so, yes, I may say I think so. But that's a little moment. If we can run down the clues we have, if we can follow their pointing fingers, we shall know the criminal and learn whether or not he had accomplices in his vile work. Quite so. And with a smile and a nod the stranger drifted away. Another man came near then and frankly introduced himself as Joe Young from a nearby town, saying he wanted to be allowed to examine the wassafe said to have been rifled by the murderer. My father built that safe, he explained his interest, and I think it might lead to some further enlightenment. Detective Hughes accompanied Young to the closed room that had been Mrs. Pell's sanctum and they entered alone. Don't touch things, cautioned Hughes. I have not really had a chance yet to go over the place with a fine-tooth comb. They've taken the poor lady's body away, but otherwise nothing's been touched. Oh, I won't touch anything, agreed Young, but I couldn't help a sort of a notion that my father might have built more than a safe. He was a skillful carpenter and joiner and Mrs. Pell was a tricky woman. I mean by that she was mighty fond of tricking people and she easily could have had a secret cupboard or even an entrance from somewhere behind that safe. But no amount of searching could discover the slightest possibility of such a thing. The open safe was an ordinary built-in-the-wall affair, not large enough to suggest an entrance for a person. Nor was there any secret compartment behind it or anything other than showed on the surface. The door, when closed, had been covered by a picture which had been taken down and flung on the floor. The safe was absolutely empty and no one knew what it had contained. Young was decidedly disappointed. I had no personal motive in looking this thing up, he said. I only hoped that my knowledge of my father's clever work might lead to some discovery that would prove helpful to you detectives or to the family. But it's plain to be seen there's no hocus-pocus about this thing. It's as simple a safe as I ever saw. Nothing, in fact, but a concealed cupboard with a combination lock. Wonder who opened it? The murderer? I don't think so, rejoined Hughes. I think the intruder, whoever he was, compelled the old lady to open it for him. You stick to the masculine gender, I see, in your assumptions. I do. I don't think for a minute that Miss Clyde is involved. But her room is just above this. Oh, that's what you're after! A secret connection between this room and Miss Clyde's by way of the safe. Yes, that's what I had in mind, but there's not the slightest possibility of it is there. No, not any other secret passage of any sort or kind. Oh, I've investigated fully in that respect. I meant I haven't searched for tiny clues and little scraps of evidence. Straws, in fact, do show which way the wind blows. Well, I don't suppose I can be of any help, but if I can, call on me. I live in East Falville only twelve miles away, and I'd like nothing better than to dig into this mystery if I want it. Thank you, Mr. Young. I appreciate your helpful spirit, and I'll call on you if it's available. But I don't mind owning up that we have more people to look into this matter than directions in which to look. As you may imagine, it's a baffling thing to get hold of. I confess I hardly know which way to turn. As the two men returned to the living room, Hughes overheard some angry words between Bannard and Roger Downing, one of the dwellers in the village. But I saw you, Downing was saying. You think you did? Returned Bannard, but you're mistaken. When, as Hughes suddenly and sharply of Downing, Sunday about noon, when Bannard was skulking around in the woods just back of this house, skulking, take back that word, cried Bannard. Well, you were sauntering around then, doddling around, whatever you wanted called, but you were there. I was not, declared Bannard. And I saw your little motor car waiting for you a bit farther along the road. You did. And Bannard laughed shortly. Well, as it happens, I don't own a motor car. Nonsense, Roger, said Hughes, when Bannard wasn't up here Sunday afternoon, where would he have been concealed until three o'clock? In his aunt's room. Take that back, shouted Bannard. Do you know what you're saying? Hush up, both of you, cautioned Hughes. For heaven's sake, don't get up a scene over nothing. But if you saw a small motor car along the road near here, I want to know about it. What time was this, Downing? Long about noon, I tell you, was the sulky reply. It might have been a few minutes before. There was no one in the car. It was drawn up by the side of the road, not more than two hundred yards from the house. And you thought you saw Mr. Bannard? Of course it was someone else, but it's important to know about this. I can't help thinking whoever committed that murder was hidden in the room for some time beforehand. And how did he get away? asked Bannard. If you asked me that once more, I'll pound you. I don't know how he got away, but he did get away and we'll find out how when we find our man. That's my theory of procedure, if you want to know. Let the mystery of the locked room wait and devote all possible effort to finding the murderer. Then the rest will unravel itself. Easier said than done, sneered Downing. If you're going to discard all evidence or statements that anyone makes to you, if you were so sure you saw Mr. Bannard on Sunday morning, why didn't you state so at the inquest? I wasn't asked, and besides, it was about noon, and old Tim can only ask about the afternoon. And besides, broke in Bannard, you weren't sure you did see me, and you weren't sure you saw anybody, and you made up this whole yarn anyhow. Nothing of the sort, and you'll find out when Bannard, when I tell all I know. Quit it now, ordered Hughes. If you've anything to tell of real importance, Roger, tell it to me when we're alone. Don't sing out your information all over the place. You're going straight ahead with your investigations, then, Bannard asked of the detective. Yes, but we can't do much till after the funeral, and—and what? And after the reading of the will? You know motive is a strong factor in unraveling a murder case. Why, suppose some of the servants receive large legacies, and you know how queer Mrs. Fell was? She might well leave a fortune to those birdies. Oh, they didn't do it, and Bannard tossed off the idea as absurd. You don't know. Leaving out, as I said before, the question of how the villain got in or out, it might easily have been one or more of the servants. And other help is hired beside the regular house-crout. Take it from me, it was somebody in the house, and not an intruder from outside. And take it from me, you don't know what you're talking about, said Roger Downing, as he angrily stalked away. Bannard had said very little to Iris since his coming to Pellbrook, but he now sought her out and asked her what she thought about the whole matter. I don't know what to think, Iris replied to his question, but I don't know as it matters so much about solving the mystery. Poor Aunt Ursula is dead, she was killed, but I don't see how we can find out who did it. I think when it must have been somebody we don't know about, say, someone connected with her early life. You know, she has had a more or less varied career. How do you mean? She lived here very quietly. Yes, but before she came here, before we knew her, even before we were born, and then her jewels. Nobody ever owned a splendid collection of jewels, but what they were beset by robbers and burglars to get the treasure. Then you think it an ordinary jewel robbery? Not ordinary, far from that, but I can't help thinking that was what the thieves were after. Why, you know her jewels are world famous. What do you mean by world famous? Well, maybe not that, but well known among jewelers and jewel collectors. So they would, of course, be known to professional jewel thieves. That's so. Where are they, anyway? The thieves? No, the jewels. I haven't the least idea. Haven't you? Honestly? Indeed I haven't. I don't believe you. Why, when, Bannert, what do you mean? Oh, I oughtn't to say that, but truly, Iris, I suppose, of course, you knew where Aunt Ursula kept them. Well, I don't. I have not the slightest notion of her hiding place. Hiding place? Aren't they in a safe deposit or something of that sort? They may be, but I don't think so. But it will be told in the will. Mr. Chapin is so ridiculously secretive about the will. Sometimes I think she may have left them all to someone else after all. Someone else? Yes, someone besides us. I think, don't you, that we ought to be her principal heirs? But she promised me always her wonderful diamond pin. Huh? I don't think one diamond pin so much. Why, she has... I know, but she always spoke of this particular diamond pin that she destined for me as something especially valuable. I expect it is a sort of co-inor. Oh, I didn't know about that. And what is she going to leave me to match up to that? I don't know, I'm sure, but we sound very mercenary talking like this before the poor lady is even buried. To be honest, Iris, I'm terribly sorry for the way the poor thing was killed, but I can't grieve very deeply unless I'm a hypocrite. As you know, Aunt Ursula and I weren't good friends. Who could be friends with Aunt Ursula? I tried my best win, my very best, but she was too trying to live with. You've no idea what I went through. Oh, yes, I have an idea. I lived with her some years myself. Well, we'll say nothing but good of her now she's gone. I say, Iris, let's take a walk down to the village and see Brown, the jeweler. What for? Ask him about her jewels. Oh, no, I think that would be horrid. You go if you like, I shan't. But Iris went out on the veranda with Bannard and they ran into Sam Tory, the brother of Agnes. Hello, Sam, said Bannard. Was that you were saying about seeing a man around here Sunday morning? Not morning, but noon, declared Sam, gazing with lackluster eyes at his questioner. Brace up now, Sam, tell me all you know, and Bannard looked the boy squarely in the eye. Sam, about seventeen or so, was of undeveloped intellect, called by the neighbours half-witted. But if pinned down to a subject and his attention kept on it, he could talk pretty nearly rationally. No, lots. Saw a man here. There, near edge of woods. Nice little car. Oh, awful nice little car. Yes, go on, what did he do? Do, do. Oh, nothing, walked around. Hold on, you said he was in a car. No, walked around. Sly. Oh, so sly. Rubbish, you're making up. Of course he is, said Iris. He can't tell a connected story. Who was the man, Sam? Don't know name, but he was at the show today. At the inquest, no, Bannard exclaimed. Yes, he was. Same man. Oh, I know him. He killed Miss E. Bell. How did he get in the house? Bannard tried to draw him on to further absurd assertions. Dunno, and Sam shook his uncertain head. But he did, and he kill, and kill, and so he come to show. Fool talk, and Bannard scowled at the defective lad. No, sir. Sam, no fool. Yes, you are, and you know it, Iris declared, but she smiled at him, for she had known the unfortunate boy a long time and always treated him kindly, but not as a rational human being. And just then Brown the local jeweler appeared. He had been sent for by Hughes in order that they might get some idea of the whereabouts of Mrs. Bell's jewel collection. No one really thought they had all been stored in the small wall safe, and Brown was asked concerning his knowledge. Several of the most interested clustered round to hear the word, and perhaps none was more eager than Mr. Bowen. Quite evidently he had strong hopes of receiving the chalice for his church, and he listened to the jeweler's story. But it was of little value. Mr. Brown declared his knowledge of many of Mrs. Bell's jewels, which she had shown him, asking his opinion or merely to gratify his interest, and again, when she had wanted to sell some of the smaller ones. But he was sure that she possessed many invaluable stones that he had never seen. He named some diamonds and emeralds that were of sufficient size and weight to be designated by name. He told of some collections that she had bought with his knowledge and advice, and he assured them that he was positive she was the owner of at least two million dollars worth of unset gems, part of which formed the collection left to her by her husband, and part of which she had acquired later herself. But Mr. Brown hadn't the slightest idea where these gems were stored for safekeeping. He had sometimes discreetly hinted to Mrs. Bell that he would like to know where they were merely as a matter of interest, but she had never told him, and had only stated that they were safe from fire, flood, or thieves. Those were her very words, he asserted, and when I said that was an all-round statement, she laughed and said they were buried. Buried! cried Iris. What an idea! A very good idea, Mr. Brown defended. I'm not sure that isn't the best way to conceal such a stock of valuables. But Buried where? pursued the girl. That I don't know, said the jeweler. End of Chapter 5 Chapter 6 of the Diamond Pin by Carolyn Wells This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. 6. Lucille I am Miss Lucille Darrell. People are usually cognizant of their own names, but few could throw more convincing certainty into the announcement than the speaker. One felt sure at once that her name was as she stated and had been so for a long time. The first adjective one would think of applying to Miss Darrell would be positive. She was that by every implication of her being. Her hair was positively white, her eyes positively black. Her manner and expression were positive, and her very walk, as she stepped into the Pellbrook living-room, was positive and unhesitating. Iris chanced to be there alone for the moment, alone that is, safe for the casket containing the body of Ursula Pell. The great room set in order for the funeral was filled with rows of folding chairs, and the oppressive odor of masked flowers permeated the place. The girl stood beside the casket, tears rolling down her cheeks, and her whole body shaking with suppressed sobs. Why, you poor child, said the newcomer in most heartfelt sympathy, are you Iris? The acquiescent reply was lost as Miss Darrell gathered the slim young figure into her embrace. There, there, she soothed. Cry all you want to, poor little girl. She gently smoothed Iris's hair and together they stood, looking down at the quiet, white face. You loved her so, and Miss Darrell's tone was soft and kind. I did, Iris said, feeling at once that she had found a friend. Oh, Miss Darrell, how kind you are. People think I didn't love Aunt Ursula because, because we were both high-tempered and we did quarrel, but underneath we were truly fond of each other, and if I seem cold and uncaring it isn't the truth, it's because, because... Never mind, dear, you may have many reasons to conceal your feelings. I know you loved her, I know you revere her memory, for I saw you as I entered when you thought you were all alone. I am alone, Miss Darrell. I am very lonely. I'm glad you have come. I've been wanting to see you. It's all so terrible, so mysterious, and, and they suspect me. Iris's dark eyes stared with fear into the kind ones that met hers and once again she began to tremble. Now, now, my child, don't talk like that. I'm here and I'll look after you. Suspect you indeed. What nonsense! But it's most inexplicable, isn't it? I know so little, only what I've read in the papers. I came from Albany last night. I started as soon as I possibly could and travelled as fast as I could. I want to hear all about it, but not from you. You're worn out, you poor dear. You ought to be in bed this minute. Oh, no, Miss Darrell, I'm all right. Only, I've a lot on my mind, you see, and, and again Iris with a glance of distress at the cold, dead face burst into tumultuous weeping. Come out of this room, said Miss Darrell positively. It only shakes your nerves to stay here. Come, show me to my room. Where shall I lodge? This house is mine now or soon will be. You knew that, didn't you? Yes, said Iris listlessly. I knew Aunt Ursula meant to leave it to you, but I don't know whether she did or not, and I don't care. I only care for one thing. But Miss Darrell was not listening. She was observing and admiring the house itself, the colonial staircase, the well-proportioned rooms and halls, and the attractive furnishings. I'll give you the rose guest room, Iris said, leading her toward it as they reached the upper hall. Winston Bannerd is here but no other visitors. If there are other heirs, I suppose Mr. Chapin has notified them. I suppose so. Returned Miss Darrell preoccupiedly. When will the services be held? This afternoon, at two, it will be a large funeral. Everybody in Baryon knew Aunt Ursula and people will come up from New York. Now have you everything you want to make you comfortable in here? Yes, thank you, replied Miss Darrell after a quick comprehensive glance around the room, and—wait a moment, Iris, may I call you Iris? Yes, indeed, I'm glad to have you. I only want to say that I want to be your friend. Please let me and come to me freely for comfort or advice or anything I can do to help you. Thank you, Miss Darrell. I am indeed glad to have a friend for I am lonely and frightened. But I can't say more now, someone is calling me. Iris ran downstairs and found Winston Bannerd eagerly asking for her. I've unearthed Aunt Ursula's diary, he exclaimed. Was it hidden? Not exactly, but old Hughes wouldn't let me rummage around in the desk much, so I took a chance when he was out of the way and it was in an upper drawer. Come on, let's go and read it. Why, now? Yes, look here, Iris, you want to trust me in this thing, you want to let me take care of you. Thank you, In, I'm glad to have you. But Iris spoke constrainedly. By the way, Miss Darrell is here. Who's she? Oh, that cousin of Aunt Ursula's. Not really her cousin, but a relative of Mr. Pells. I never knew her, did you? No, what's she like? Oh, she's lovely, kind and capable, but rather dictatorial, or at least decided. Does she get the house? She says so, and I know Auntie spoke of leaving it to her because I believe Mr. Pell had wished it. What about the jewels, Iris? Oh, Win, I wish you wouldn't talk or think about those things still after. After the funeral. I know it seems strange. I know I seem mercenary and all that, but it isn't so, Iris. There's something wrong going on, and unless we are careful and alert, we'll lose our inheritance yet. What do you mean? Never mind, but come with me and let's take a glimpse into the diary. I tell you we ought to do it. It may mean everything. Iris followed him to a small enclosed porch off the dining room and they put their heads together over the book. It was funny for Ursula Pell couldn't help being funny. One entry read, felt like the old scratch today so took it out on Iris. Poor girl, I am ashamed of myself to tease her so, but she's such a good-natured little nanny, she stands it as few girls would. I must make it up to her in some way. And another read at random. Up a stump today for some mischief to get into. Satan doesn't look out properly for my idle hands. I manicured them carefully and sat waiting for some real nice mischief to come along, but none did, so I hunted up some for myself. It's Agnes's night out and I stuffed the kitchen door keyhole with putty. Won't she be mad? She'll have to ring Polly up and she'll be mad, too. I'll give Agnes my black lace parasol to make up. What a scab I am. I feel like little Toddy and Helen's babies who used to pray, D. Lord, not make me so bad. Well, I suppose this my nature, too. These are late dates, said Bannerd running over the leaves, let's look further back. It was not a yearly diary but a good-sized blank book in which the writer had jotted down her notes as she felt inclined. Something was written every day but it might be a short paragraph or several pages in length. Here's something about us. And Bannerd pointed to a page. The entry ran. Today I gave the box for Iris into Mr. Chape and Skeeping. I shall never see it again. After I am gone he will give it to I and she can have it for what it's worth. I'll leave the F pocketbook to Winston. The house must go to Lucille, but the young people won't mind that as they will have enough. That's all right, isn't it, Iris? Looks as if we were the principal heirs. You can't tell when 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, when! You know Mr. Brown 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 choice as gem. Perhaps. Listen to this, Iris. I am going to New York next Tuesday. I shall give Winston a cheap-looking pair of gloves, but I shall first put a hundred-daughter 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's handbag today. 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's 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. Sha, she could have helped it if she wanted to. Somebody's coming. Put the book away now. That somebody proved to be Miss Darrell, who, when bannered 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. Bannered gave Miss Darrell 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 Darrell 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's excitement to a higher pitch and finally Miss Darrell 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 Darrell, 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 in your feverish and ill. Take this, my child, and try to rest quietly. Iris took the soothing draft and fell for a few moments into a troubled slumber. But almost immediately she roused herself and sat bold upright. I didn't kill her, she said, her large dark eyes burning into Miss Darrell'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 Darrell'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 Darrell spoke softly and in a nod 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 Darrell kept a watchful eye on Iris, but the girl was quite her normal self. Winston Bannerd 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 degrees were altogether valid. As was anticipated, the house and a state of Pellbrook were bequeathed to Miss Lucille Darrell. 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 Purdy's, and a wonderful gold watch with a jeweled pub to Campbell. A clause of the will directed that, if any of the legates prefer cash to sentiment, they are entirely at liberty to sell their gifts, and it is recommended that Mr. Brown 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 Bannert. 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 Bannert, the Florentine pocketbook, which is in the upper right hand compartment of the desk in my sitting room, and which contains a receipt from Craig Marsden and Company of Chicago. This receipt he will find of interest. That pocketbook, cried Bannert. Why, that's the one the thief emptied. Everyone looked up aghast. The empty pocketbook found flung on the floor of the ransacked room was certainly a 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 entrusted 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 Bannert 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. End of Chapter 6