 CHAPTER XIII of THE DIAMOND PIN by Carolyn Muelles. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. XIII. FLEMING STONE COMES. Fleming Stone carried his ears lightly. Except for the slight graying at his temples no one would think that he had arrived as he had at the years that are called middle-aged. But an especially interesting problem so stirred his enthusiasm and roused his energies that he grew young again, and his dark eyes fairly scintillated with eagerness and power. Tell me everything! He repeated, even after he had heard all the details over and over again. Oh, mitt, nothing! No, tiniest point! It all helps! They sat in the living-room at Pellbrook, Miss Daryl and Iris being present, also Hughes and the lawyer Chapin. Stone had examined the sitting-room where Mrs. Pell had died, and closing its door had returned to the big living-room for further information on the whole subject of the crime and its subsequent events. The pin's the thing! He said at last. Everything hinges on that. Do you think so? asked Mr. Chapin. It seems to me the pins are blind, a decoy, and the people hunting it are really after something else of intrinsic value. Fleming Stone looked at the lawyer with a courteous impatience. No, Mr. Chapin, the pin is the thing they are after. It was for that pin that Mrs. Pell was murdered. That is why her dress was torn open at the throat, the villain was searching for that pin. That's why the desk was ransacked and the handbag explored, the pocketbook emptied, all in a desperate effort to find that seemingly insignificant pin. That is why the poor woman was tortured, maltreated, bruised, and beaten in final attempts to make her tell where the pin was. Failing, the wretch flung her to the floor in a burst of murderous frenzy. That's why I was kidnapped then, exclaimed Iris. Of course, and you may be again, those people will stop at nothing. The letters asking for the pin, the caller who wanted it for his collection, all represent the same mastermind who is after the pin. But why, wondered Hughes, what do they want of the pin? The pin means the jewels, declared Stone briefly. How I can't say exactly for the moment, but the pin is the open sesame to the hiding place of the gems and only the possession of it will secure the treasure. We must get the pin and then all else will be clear sailing. But the pin is gone, lamented Iris. That is the worst phase of it all, Stone said regretfully. It is such a difficult thing to trace, not only so tiny and easily lost, but so like thousands of others, that it can't readily be discerned even if seen. You think it's just an ordinary pin, then, inquired Chapin. Absolutely, sir. Then why won't any other pin do as well? Stone looked at him keenly. I can't answer that at present, Mr. Chapin. My theory regarding the pin, while doubtless the truth, is as yet uncertain. Now another and equally great problem is that of the murderer's exit. From your story of the crime I gather that the room was absolutely unentrable, except by breaking in the door which Purdy and the chauffeur did. That is true, agreed Iris. The windows, as you can see, are strongly barred and there is but one door. Search has been made for secret entrances or concealed passages, but there is nothing of the sort. No, said Stone, this sort of house is not apt to have such. If there were any they would be easily discovered, and there were several people in this room when the two men burst in the door. Yes, said Iris, I was here and Polly the cook and the two men. You are positive the murderer could not have slipped by you as the door flew open and so made his escape. That was utterly impossible. We were all grouped around the door and stayed so until we entered the sitting room ourselves. There was nobody there but Aunt Ursula herself. She did. Yes, but only just did. Polly heard her faint moans after her loud screams, you know, before we broke in. And what were the words she used when she screamed out? I don't know exactly, but they were cries for help and I'm sure Polly said she called out thieves. Of course she was unable to speak coherently. Now, began Stone, to look at this one point. Her assailant had to get out or stay in, didn't he? For sure he didn't get out, therefore he must have stayed in. A man of flesh and blood cannot go through walls like a ghost. But he didn't stay in, cried Iris. We searched the room at once, there was nobody in it. You know there's almost no place to hide. We looked behind the window curtains and all such places, and too we were in this room continuously till others came and no one could have gone through here without being seen. Where could he get out of the barred windows? Then what became of him? Ah, Mr. Stone, said Hughes, that's the question that has puzzled us all. If you can solve that we begin to look for the murderer. Meantime we must assume him to be a spook, is that it? Stone smiled a little at the complacent Hughes. I don't say that, but I do call the manner of his exit an insoluble mystery. If he could accomplish it I can find out how, Stone said quietly. He had no air of bravado, but he made the statement in our sincerity. I believe you can, declared Lucille. That's why I wanted you, Mr. Stone. I've heard of your almost unbelievable cleverness, and I knew if anybody could get to the bottom of this mystery you could. I don't mind admitting that it is seemingly the most inexplicable one I have encountered, but I shall do my best. And I want the cooperation of you all. There are many things to be told me yet. Remember I've only just heard the main details, and each of you can give me light in different ways. I'll call on you for information when necessary. Also, Miss Daryl, will you extend your hospitality to my young assistant? That boy, Lucille, smiled. Yes, Terrence's name is. He's my right-hand man, it attends to a lot of detail work for me. He's a handful, and Lucille lapped again. I saw him in the kitchen, weedling round, poly and begging for cookies. I'll warrant he got him, said Stone. He has a way with him that is persuasive indeed, but he won't make you any bother. Fix him up a bed in the loft or anywhere. He's willing to rough it. Oh, no, he can have a decent room, of course. I'll give him one in the garage. There's a nice one next to Campbell's. At that moment Terrence appeared at the door. Come in, said Stone. I want these ladies to know you. Awkwardly, the boy entered and blushed furiously as Stone gravely introduced him all around. We'll be friends, Terrence, said Iris, who felt sorry for his embarrassment and who pleasantly offered her hand. Thank you, ma'am, and will you please call me Phipsy? It makes me feel more at home, like. Phipsy? What a funny name, because you tell Phibs. Yes, ma'am, how do you guess? The laughing eyes met hers in the boy's stubby pot touched Iris's soft hand. But some subtle spark passed between them that made each feel the other a friend and a tacit compact was sealed without a word. Let me see the room, whispered Phipsy with a pleading look at Fleming Stone. Yes, and the detective rose at once and accompanied the lad to the room of the tragedy. The details of the death of Mrs. Bell were quickly rehearsed and Phipsy's eyes darted round the room taking in every detail of walls and furniture. Hughes was astounded. Who was this insignificant boy that he should be consulted and referred to? Why was an experienced detective like himself set aside as of no consequence, while Fleming Stone washed absorbantly the face of the urchin? How did the murderer get out? Hughes could not help saying with a view to confusing the boy. Gee, if all you local police has concentrated your thinkers on that all this time and hasn't doped it out yet, I can't put it over all at once. But Mr. Stone, he'll rank the hard out of the mystery you can just bet. Of course, how'd the murderer get out is easy enough to sit around and say, like a flock of parrots, the thing to do is find out how he did get out. Phipsy stood hand in pockets in front of the mantel looking down at the floor. Here's where she was lying, he asked gravely and Iris nodded her head. Leaning down, Phipsy looked up the chimney and Hughes laughed out. Back, number, he said looking bored. Don't you suppose we've investigated that chimney business? A monkey couldn't get up that little flu let alone an able-bodied man. That's so, my bucko, and Phipsy beamed on Hughes without a trace of rancor at the Elder Man's scorn. Now about the evidence against Mr. Bannard, Stone said to the local detective. Do I understand it's only the newspaper and cigarette that he was supposed to have left in this room? Well, Hughes defended himself. He had motive. He was seen around these parts, and he denies he was up here. Never mind. I'll talk with him, please. I'll learn more from his own story. He isn't guilty, oh, Mr. Stone, he isn't guilty," Iris exclaimed, with her beautiful eyes filling with tears. Please get him out of that awful jail, can't you? Let us hope so, Miss Clyde. Stone spoke abstractedly. Where is the newspaper in question? Here it is, and Iris took it from a drawer and handed it to him. Why, this has never been opened," exclaimed Stone. No, agreed Hughes. When Bannard came up here Sunday morning on his bicycle he had no thought for the day's news. He had other plans ahead. He carried that paper up here without reading it, and he left it here also unopened. Might have been opened and folded up again," offered Fibsi. It has, too. I did that," said Hughes importantly. I opened it the first time I saw it, naturally one would, and I refolded it exactly as it was. It's of no further value as evidence, but I made sure it hadn't been read. You can always tell if a paper's been read or not. Sure you can," agreed Fibsi. Where's this Mr. Bannard live? In bachelor apartments in New York," said Iris. I mean where in New York, the boy persisted. West 44th Street. He ain't the murderer, and Fibsi handed the newspaper that he had been glancing over back to Hughes. You darling," cried Iris excitedly, grasping Fibsi's two hands. Of course he isn't, but how do you know? Don't go too fast, Fibsi," said Fleming Stone, smiling with understanding at the boy. Shall we say the real murderer lives somewhere near Bob Grady's place? Yes, sir, yes. Oh, Lord, what a muddle! Again the boy stood in front of the fireplace, musing deeply. New, he said, turning to the electric lamp on the nearby table. Yes, said Iris, puzzled at his actions. When the man knocked Auntie down the table was overturned and the lamp smashed to bits. We put a new one in its place. Oh, all right. Now where was that cigarette stub found, and how far was it burned? Hughes disliked to answer the boy's questions, but Fleming Stone turned expectantly toward him so he replied. It was on the desk and it was about half-smoked. And this poker, did it lie here where it is now? Wasn't she hit with it? Those things have all been thrashed out, replied Hughes a little petulantly. No, she wasn't hit with the poker. She was flung down and her head knocked onto the sharp knob on the fender. How do you know? There is a blood stain on the brass knob and her head was right by it. The poker is two feet away. Might have been used all the same, and Pipsy stared at it. How some ever that don't count. We've got her dead and we've got to find out who did it, and so far it wasn't Mr. Bannard. When will it begin to be Mr. Bannard? said Hughes with fine sarcasm. I mean, Pipsy returned quietly. So far they ain't nothing to implicate Mr. Bannard. Something might turn up, though, but I don't think so. And anyway the problem, first of all, ain't who, but how. That's what we must hunt out first, eh, Mr. Stone? Very well, Terrence. Stone spoke abstractedly. You attend to that while I find the pin. It seems to me that is the most important thing. Ain't that F.S. all over, cried Pipsy admiringly, puts his finger on the very spot, and me a babbling foolishness about finding how the chap he got in. You do certainly babble foolishness, flung out Hughes unable to conceal his annoyance at the boy's forwardness as he looked upon it. Yes, sir, and Pipsy's humble acceptance of Hughes' reproof had no tinge of irony. The boy was not conceited or bumpious, he was Stone's assistant, and took no order safe from his chief, but he never assumed importance on his own merit nor behaved with insolence or impertinence to anyone. His only desire was to serve Flaving Stone, and an approving nod from the great detective was all the reward Terrence McGuire desired. And then Pipsy seemed possessed of a new idea of some sort, for with a sudden exclamation and a word of excuse he ran from the room. Don't allow yourself to be annoyed by that boy, Mr. Hughes, said Stone. He is a great help to me in any work. His manners are not intentionally rude, but sometimes he gets absorbed in an investigation, and he forgets what I've tried to teach him of courtesy and consideration for others. He's of humble birth, but I'm endeavouring to make him of gentlemanly behaviour, and I'm succeeding on the whole, but in emergency the fervour of his soul runs away with the intent of his mind. For he wants to behave as I ask him to, I know that. Therefore I forgive him much, and I must ask you to be all so lenient. Then apparently feeling that he had done his duty by Hughes, the detective turned his attention to the room once more. He scrutinised everything all over again. He left no minutest portion of the mantle, the table, the desk or the window draperies, uninspected. A few taps at walls and partitions brought the comment. No secret entrance, and had there been new people must have found it ere this. It is a satisfaction to find so much of the investigating done already, and thoroughly done. Hughes bridled with satisfaction and eagerly watched Stone's further procedure. Fipsi took his way to the garage and began a desultory conversation with Campbell the chauffeur. Who's the college professor? He asked, pointing a thumb over his shoulder at a long blank figure hovering toward them. Him? He's Sam. Sam? Yep. Don't babble on so. I don't want all his family history. Quit talking, can't you? As Campbell had said only a few monosyllables, and as he had the Scotchman's national sense of humour, he merely stared at his interlocutor. Oh, well, since you're in a chattering mood, spill a little more. Who's he in America? Sam? Oh, he's Agnes's half-brother, and he's half-witted. Hmm. Sort of fractional currency. Is he—is he exclusive? Eh? Never mind. Thank you. I'll be my own intelligence office. Hey, Sam, watch some chewing gum. The Lackwit turned to the bright-faced boy who followed him and favoured him with a vacant stare. Gum, sunny, gum, you know, choo-choo, eh? Sam held out his hand, and Fibsi put a paper package in it. Wait a minute. He went on, leading Sam out of earshot of the garage. What's that song I heard you sing in a bit ago? No, sir. Sam don't sing that more. Oh, yes, Sam does. It's a pretty song. Come now. I like your voice. Sam sings pretty. Very pretty. The whittlesome tone and smile did the trick, and the foolish boy broke out in a low, crooning song. It is a sin to steal a pin as well as any greater thing. Good! Fibsi applauded. Would you learn that, Samaville? Long ago, baby days. And why do you sing it today? A look of fear came over Sam's face, followed by a smile of cunning. He looked like a leering gargoyle as grotesque as any on not a dumb. Do you know why? He whispered. Oh, yes, I know why. But we won't tell anybody will us. No, not anybody. Who do you steal it from? From chair, he he he, from old Mr. Chair. Yes, of course. And Fibsi's heart beat fast, the big, fat Mr. Chair. Yes, big, fat Mr. Chair. In Mrs. Pell's room. Yes, yes, in Missy Pell's room. But Fibsi began to think the clouded intellect was merely repeating words spoken to it, and he asked, who put the pin in chair for Sam to steal? Who? And the blank foolish face was inquiring. Campbell? No, no, not Campbell. No, no, it was Agnes. No, not Agnes. Who then? Fibsi held his breath, lest he disturbed the evident effort the poor lad was making to remember. Missy Iris, Sam said at last. Yes, Missy Iris, Missy Iris, yes, Missy. There, there. Fibsi shut him up. Don't say that again. Did you see her? Yes, by window. Then Sam steal pin. It is a sin to steal a pin. It is a sin to steal a pin. It is. But Fibsi set to work to turn the poor befuddled mind in another direction, and after a time he succeeded. End of Chapter 13 Chapter 14 of the Diamond Pin by Carolyn Wells This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. 14 Fibsi and Sam There are two things to find, Fleming Stone said. The murderer and the pin. There are two things to find out, how the murderer got away and why the pin is valuable. Stone persisted in his belief that the pin was of value and that in some way it would lead to the discovery of the jewels. He had read all of Ursula Pell's diary, and though it gave no definite assurance there were hints in it that strengthened his theory. Before he had been in the Pell House 24 hours he had learned all he could from the examination of the whole premises and the inspection of all the papers and books in Mrs. Pell's desk. He declared that the murderer was after the pin and that failing to find it he had maltreated Ursula Pell in a fit of rage at his failure. "'She was of an irritating nature, you tell me,' Stone said, and it may well be that she not only refused to give up the pin but teased and tantalized the intruder who sought it. But what use could the pin be as a clue to the jewels?' Lucille Daryl asked. I can't imagine any theory that would explain that. "'I can imagine a theory,' Stone responded, but it is merely a theory, a surmise, rather, and it is so doubtful at best I'd rather not divulge it at present, but the pin must be found.' "'I haven't found it, but I have a notion of which way to look,' said Vipsy, who had just entered the room. It was Mrs. Pell's sitting room and Fleming Stone was still fingering some packets of papers in the desk. "'Out with it, Vips, for I'm going over to see Mr. Bannard now and I want all your information before I go.' So Vipsy told of what Sam had said and of the snatch of song he had sung. "'Good enough as far as it goes,' commented Stone, but your source of knowledge seems a bit uncertain. "'That's just it,' said Vipsy, that's why I didn't tell you this last night. "'I thought I'd tackle friend Boobykins this morning and see if I could get more of the real goods. But, Nixie, Sam says he has the pin, but he doesn't know where it is. "'I'm afraid you're trying to draw water from an empty well, son. Better try some other green fields and pastures new.' "'I know it, Mr. Stone, but suppose you just speak to the innocent before you go away? You can tell if he knows anything.' "'Why should Sam steal the pin?' Iris asked, her eyes big with amazement. "'You can't tell what such people will do,' Vipsy returned. "'He may have seen you hiding it, as he says he did, and he may have come in and stolen it just because of a mere whimsy in his brain. Is he around here much?' "'Quite a good deal of late. He's fond of Agnes, and he trails for about like a dog after its master. Aunt Ursula wouldn't have him around much when she was here, but Miss Daryl doesn't mind. "'I don't like him,' said Lucille, but I am sorry for him, and he does adore Agnes. I thought he ought to be put in an institution.' "'Oh, no,' said Iris. "'He isn't bad enough for that. He's not really insane, just feeble-minded. He's perfectly harmless.' "'Bring him in here,' suggested Stone. Vipsy ran out and came back with a half-witted boy. "'Hello, Sam,' said Stone, in an offhanded, kindly way. "'You're the boy for us. Now, where did you say you found that pin?' "'Here,' and Sam pushed his hand down in the big chair in the very spot where Iris had concealed it. "'Good boy, how'd you get into this room?' "'Through a window in other room, walked in here.' He spoke with pride in his achievement, but at Stone's next question a look of deep cunning came into his eyes, and he shook his head. For the detective said, "'Where is the pin now, Sam?' The lackluster eyes gleamed with an uncanny wisdom and the stupid face showed a stubborn denial as he said, "'I don't know, I don't know, I don't know.'" And then he broke forth again into the droning song. "'It is a sin to steal a pin, as well as any greater thing.'" This couplet he repeated in his peculiarly insistent way until they were all nearly frantic. "'Stop that,' ordered Lucille. "'Put him out of the room, somebody. Hush up, Sam.' "'Wait a minute,' said Stone. "'Listen, Sam, what will you take to show me where the pin is?' "'Dollars, dollars, a lot of dollars.'" "'Two,' and Stone drew out his wallet. "'Yes, two, three, four, lot of dollars.'" And then he'll tell us where the pin is. "'Yes, Sam, tell then it is a sin.'" Don't sing that again. Look, here's four nice daughter bills. Now, where's the pin? Where? Sam looked utterly blank. Where's the pin? Nice pin. Oh, penny-pin-pin. Where's the pin? Oh, I know. All right, where? Forgot. I'll forgot. Nice pin. Forgot. Forgot. Forgot. Hope Shah exclaimed Lucille. He doesn't know anything. I don't believe he really took the pin at all. He heard Agnes and Polly talking about it and he thinks he did. Oh, yes, Sam took pin, declared the idiot boy himself. Yes, Sam took pin, penny-pin, beautiful day, beautiful day, beautiful, beautiful day. The boy stood babbling. He was not ill-looking and the pathos of it all made him far from ridiculous. A tall, well-formed lad, his face would have been really attractive had the light of intelligence blessed it. But his blue eyes were vacant, his lips were not firm, and his head turned unsteadily from side to side. Yet now and again a gleam of cunning showed in his expression and Fipsy, watching such moments, tried to make him speak rationally. Think it up, Sam, he said kindly. There. Do you remember now? So you do. Where did you put the nice pin? In the crack of the floor. In the crack of the floor. In the… Yes, of course you did, encouraged stone. That was a good place. Now what floor was it? This room? No, no, no, no, not this floor, no, no, no, another floor. Not all further effort to learn what floor was unsuccessful. Indeed, they didn't really think the boy had hidden the pin in a floor crack, or at least they could not feel sure of it. He never had the pin at all, Lucille asserted. He heard the others talking about it, probably they said it might be in a crack and he remembered the idea. Keep him on the place. Stone told them as he prepared to go to see Bannert. Don't let Sam get away whatever you do. The call on Winston Bannert was preceded by a short visit to Detective Hughes. While the lesser detective was not annoyed or offended at Stone's taking up the case, yet it was part of his professional pride to be able to tell his more distinguished colleague any new points he could get hold of. And today Hughes had received back from a local handwriting expert the letter that had been sent to Iris. And he says, Hughes told the tale, he says, Barlow does, that that letter is in Wyn Bannert's writing but disguised. What? And Stone eyed the document incredulously. Yep, Barlow says so and he's an expert, he is. See those twirly whys and those extra long looped G's are just like these here in a lot of letters of Bannert's. Are these in Bannert's writing? Yes, those are all his. You can see from their contents. Now this here note signed William Ashton has the same peculiarities. Yes, I see that. Do you believe Bannert wrote this letter to his cousin? She ain't exactly his cousin, only a half sort of one. I know, never mind that now. Do you think Bannert wrote the note? Yes, I do. I believe Wyn Bannert is after that pin so as he can find them jewels. Oh, then you think the pin is a guide to the jewels? Well, it must be as you say so. To any rate, the murderer wanted something awful bad. He never seemed like he was after just money or he to come at night, don't you think so? Perhaps. Well, say it was Wyn, there is nothing to offset that theory, and everything to point toward it. Moreover, there's no other's aspect. William Ashton, Rodney Pollock, all the same man, opined Hughes, and all, Wynston Bannert. Oh, I don't know. How you going to get around that letter? You see yourself it's Bannert's writing disguised, and not very much disguised at that. Why, look at the capital W. The one in William and this one in his own signature are almost identical. Why didn't he try to disguise them? He did disguise the whole letter, but he forgot now and then. They always do. It's mighty hard, Barlow says, to keep up the disguise all through. They're sure to slip up and return to their natural formation of the letters here and there. I suppose that so. Shall I confront Bannert with this? If you like, you're in charge. At least I'm in with you. I don't want to run counter to your ideas in any way. Thank you, Mr. Hughes. I appreciate the justice and courtesy of your attitude toward me, and I thank you for it. But it don't extend to that boy, that cub of yours. Deherence. Flemingstone laughed. All right, I'll tell him to keep out of your way. He'll not bother you, Mr. Hughes. Thank you, sir. Shall I go over to the jail with you? No, I'd rather go alone. But as to this theory of yours, you blame Bannert for all the details of this thing. Do you think he kidnapped Miss Clyde last Sunday? I think it was his doing. Of course the two people who carried her off were merely tools of the mastermind. Bannert could have directed them as well as anybody else. She could, surely. Now, here's another thing. I want to trace the house where Miss Clyde was taken. Seems to me that would help a lot. Lord man, how can you find that? Do you know any nearby town where there's an insurance agent named Clement Foster? Sure I do. He lives over in Meadville. Then Meadville is very likely the place where that house is. How do you know? I don't know, but I asked Miss Clyde to think of anything in the room she was in that might be indicative, and she told of a calendar with that agent's name on it. It's only a chance, but it is likely that the calendar was in the same town that the agent lives and works in. Of course it is. Very likely. You are a smart chap, ain't you? Mr. Hughes' admiration was so full and frank that Stone smiled. That isn't a very difficult deduction, he said, but we must verify it. This afternoon we'll drive over there with Miss Clyde and see if we can track down the house we're after. Fleming Stone went alone to his interview with Winston Bannard. He found the young man willing to talk, but hopelessly dejected. There's no use, Mr. Stone, he said after some roundabout conversation. I'll be railroaded through. I didn't kill my aunt, but the circumstantial evidence is so desperately strong against me that nobody will believe me innocent. They can't prove it because they can't find out how I got in, or rather out, but as there's nobody else to suspect they'll stick to me. How did you get out? Not being in I didn't get out at all. I mean when you were there in the morning. Winston Bannard turned white and bestowed on his interlocutor a glance of utter despair. For heaven's sake, he exclaimed, you've been in burying less than two days and you've got that, have you? I have, Mr. Bannard, and before we go further, let me say that I am your friend and that I do not think you are guilty of murder or of theft. Thank you, Mr. Stone, and Bannard interrupted him to grasp his hand. That's the first word of cheer I've had. My lawyer is a half-hearted champion because he believes in his soul that I did it. Have you told him the whole truth? I have not, I couldn't. Every bit of it would only drag me deeper into the mire of an inexplicable mystery. Will you tell it all to me? Gladly, if you'll promise to believe me. I can't promise that blindly, but I'll tell you that I think I shall be able to recognize the truth as you tell it. Did you write the letter signed William Ashton? Lord, no, why would I do that? To get the pin! Now hold on, before we go further, Mr. Stone, do satisfy my curiosity. Is that pin that foolish common little pin of any value? I think so, Mr. Bannard, I can't tell until I see it. But man, why see it? It's just like any common pin. I examined it myself and it isn't bent or twisted or different in any way from millions of other pins. Quite evidently, then, you've not tried to get possession of it. Your scorn of it is sincere, I'm certain. You may be. I have no interest in that pin, for I know it was only a fool-joke of Aunt Ursula's to tease poor little Iris. Her joking habit was most annoying, was it not? All of that and then some, she was a terror. Why I simply couldn't keep on living with her. She made my life a burden, and she did the same by Iris. What that girl has suffered! But the last straw was the worst. Why, for years and years Aunt Ursula told of the valuable diamond pin she had bequeathed to Iris. At least we thought she said diamond pin, but she said diamond pin, I suppose. Yes, I know all about that. It was a cruel jest, unless, as I hope, the pin is really of value. But never mind that now. Tell me your story of that fatal Sunday. Here goes, then. I was out with the boys the night before, and I lost a lot of money at Bridge. I was hard up and I told one of the fellows I'd come up to bury in the next day and touch Aunt Ursula for a present. She often gave me a check if I could catch her in the right mood. So next day, Sunday morning, I started on my bicycle and came up here. What time did you leave New York? Long about nine, I guess. It was a heavenly day and I'd dawdled some for I wanted to get here after Iris had gone to church. I wanted to see Aunt Ursula alone, and then, if I got the money, I wanted to go back to New York and not spend the day here. What's in this question? Are you in love with Miss Clyde? I am, Mr. Stone, but she doesn't care for me. She thinks me and Air do well and perhaps I am, but truly I had turned over a new leaf and, if Iris would have smiled on me, I was going to live right ever after. But I knew she wasn't over-anxious to see me, so I planned to make my call at Pellbrook and get away while she was absent at church. You reached the house, then, after Miss Clyde had gone. Yes, and the servants had all gone. At least I didn't see any of them. I went in at the front door and I found Aunt Pell in her own sitting room. She was glad to see me, she was in a very amiable mood, and when I asked her for some money, she willingly took out her checkbook and drew me a check for five thousand dollars. I was amazed, I was amazed for I had expected to have to coax her for it. And then? Then I stayed about half an hour, not longer, for Aunt Ursula, though kind enough, seemed absent-minded, or rather, wrapped up in her own thoughts, and when I said I'd be going she made no demure and I went. And what time was this? I've thought the thing over, Mr. Stone, and though I'm not positive, I think I reached Pellbrook at quarter before eleven and left it about quarter after eleven. Leaving your aunt perfectly well and quite as usual? Yes, so far as I know, save that, as I told you, she was preoccupied in her manner. You had a New York paper? Yes, a herald. Where did you buy it? Nowhere. I have one left at my door every morning. I read it before I left my rooms but I put part of it in my pocket as I usually do in case I want to look at it again. You know there was a herald found in the room after the murder. Of course I do, but it was not mine. What became of yours? I haven't the least idea, I never thought of it again. Quite a coincidence that a herald should have been left there when your aunt took quite another New York paper. I'm telling you this thing just as it happened, Mr. Stone. Banner'd spoke sternly and with such a straightforward glance that Fleming Stone said, I beg your pardon, proceed. I went down to New York, Banner'd resumed, and I stopped at the Red Fox Inn for lunch. At what time? About noon or a bit later. I don't know those hours exactly for I had no notion I'd be called to account for them and I paid little heed to the time. I had the money I wanted and Ursula had given it to me willingly. I could pay off my debts and I meant to live a less haphazard life. I was making all sorts of plans to make good and so gain Iris Clyde's favour and perhaps later her love. I've not told her of this for next thing I knew I was suspected of killing my aunt. But I'm told that the detectives have inquired and the waiter who served you at the Inn says you were on your way to Ward Barion, not from it. Then the waiter lies. I was on my way back to New York. I lunched at the Inn and proceeded on my way. I reached town about three or later and when I finally got back to my rooms I found a telegram from Iris to come right up here. I did so and the rest of my story is public information. Now the murderer, whoever he may have been, came to the house long after I left it. Oh I can't say that for he may have hidden in the house when I was there. But anyway, he killed Aunt Ursula about the middle of the afternoon so I supposed my true story would be sufficient alibi. But it hasn't proved so and now if they say the Inn people declare I was coming north instead of going south as I was then I can only say that the villain who did the deed is trying to make it seem to have been me. That's my belief, agreed Stone. The whole affair is a carefully planned and deep laid scheme and concocted in a clever and diabolically ingenious brain. End of Chapter 14 Chapter 15 of The Diamond Pin by Carolyn Wells This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. 15. In the Coal Hole Phippsy stuck to half-witted Sam like a leech. The boy's theory was that Sam had stolen the pin as he said and that he had hidden it with the cunning of a defective mind in a place most unlikely to be suspected. So Phippsy cultivated the lack with acquaintance and established friendly relations. Agnes rather resented Phippsy's attitude, but his weddlesome ways won her heart too and the three were often together. In fact, Phippsy enlisted Agnes on his side and convinced her that they must learn from Sam where the pin was hidden if he had really stolen it. It was difficult to get information from Sam himself, for his statements were contradictory and misleading. But by watching him closely, Phippsy hoped to catch him off guard and make him reveal his secret. Sam babbled of the pin continually. As Agnes said, whenever he got a new topic in his poor disordered brain he harped on it day and night. Piny, pin, pin, he would chat in his sing-song way. Nice, Piny, pin, pin, where are you? Where are you? Nice, Piny, pin, where are you? It was enough to drive one frantic, but Phippsy encouraged it as a means toward an end. And one day he found Sam down on his knees poking a sharp pointed stick in between the boards of the kitchen floor. The cracks were wide in the old house and Phippsy held his breath as he, himself unseen, watched the idiot boy diligently digging. But it amounted to nothing. After turning out many little piles of dust and dirt, Sam rose and said dejectedly, no, Piny, pin, there. Where is it? Oh, oh, oh, where is it? Phippsy had learned the workings of the queer mind and he was sure now that Sam had hidden the pin but not in a floor crack. The mention of that hiding place had been made by Sam to turn suspicion from the real one and then the idea had stuck in his head and Phippsy feared he had forgotten the true place of concealment. This would be a catastrophe, for it might then be the pin would never be found. So Phippsy stuck to his self-imposed task of standing by Sam hoping for a chance revelation. Go ahead, Fleming Stone told him, do all you can with Sam. I too feel sure he took the pin from the chair where Ms. Clyde put it. Find the pin, Phippsy boy, find the pin and I'll do the rest. Stone spent an entire morning in Mrs. Pell's room going over her old letters and getting every possible light on her earlier life. He learned that she had been born and reared in a small town in Maine, that she had married and gone abroad for a stay of several years, that after she had lived in Chicago and for the past ten years had resided at Pellbrook. Her husband had died fifteen years ago and left her his great fortune, mostly in precious stones. Ten years ago when she came to Barion she had taken all the jewels from the bankers and had concealed them in some place of safety which was not known to anyone but herself. Her diary attested this fact over and over again. But it gave no hint as to where the hiding place might be. Stone pondered long and deeply over the statement that the gems were in some crypt and as he thought a great inspiration came to him. Of course, he said to himself, it is that. It can be nothing else. But he confided his new theory to nobody. He only began to ask more questions. He quizzed Iris as to her Chicago visit and wanted a detailed account of every minute she had spent there. Then he asked her more particularly about the house where she was taken in the little motor-car. Let's try to find it, Stone said. Let's go now. They started off in a runabout which Stone drove himself. Knowing that the house might be in Meadville they went that way. Iris was unable to verify the route so they went there on the chance. A wild goose chase probably, Stone conceded, but will make a stab at it. You see, Miss Clyde, I'm getting the thing narrowed down to a few main propositions. There is, first, a mastermind at the head of all the mystery. He is the murderer. He is your caller, Pollock. He is William Ashton. He is the man you saw in Chicago who attacked you that night in Mrs. Bell's room, who kidnapped you that Sunday. In fact, he is the man at the helm. He has underlings, but I do not think they are accomplices or confederates, they are merely hirelings. Now, of course, Pollock is not this man's real name, but we will call him that for identification among ourselves. This Pollock wanted the pin, we'll say, and not only the pin but the paper, the receipt that was in the Florentine pocketbook, and that was definitely bequeathed to Mr. Bannard. The paper is quite as valuable as the pin, and he did get that. Why, that was just a receipt. Yes, and the pin was just a pin, but we want them both, and therefore we want the man, Pollock. This is Meadville, but I don't see any house that could possibly be the one they took me to. It had rather high stone front steps with brick uprights to them. They soon went through the little town, but no such peculiarity was to be found. Don't give up the ship too easily, said Stone, smiling at Iris's frown of disappointment. We haven't exhausted our resources yet." A few inquiries showed him the office of Clement Foster, the insurance agent. Here Iris saw a calendar exactly like the one that had been in the room where Flossie searched her. After a little talk, Fleming Stone discovered that the agent had given out few of those calendars outside his hometown, but he mentioned some names that he remembered. Do any of these people live in a house with high stone steps? The detective queried. Let me see. Yes, Joe Young, over to East Falville, has stone steps? With brick uprights, asked Iris eagerly. Yes, that's right. Nice little house it is, too. Right on Maple Avenue, the prettiest street in that village. Thanking the agent, the inquiring pair went on their way, rejoicing. And sure enough, the house of Joe Young proved to be the very one where Iris had been taken. They went in, and after introducing himself, Stone learned that Mr. Young was decidedly interested in the Pellbrook mystery, and that his father had built the wall safe in Mrs. Pell's room. Moreover, Young had attended the inquest and had kept in touch with all the developments so far as he could learn them. But it was impossible to associate him with the kidnapping of Iris. He was too frankly interested and sympathetic to be suspected of playing a part or deceiving them in his attitude toward them. Where were you a week ago, Sunday? Stone asked him suddenly. Why, let me think. Oh, yes, my wife and I went over to Meadville and spent the day with her mother's folks. Yes, that's what we did. Why? Who was here in this house? Stone went on. Nobody, it was locked up all day. Has anyone a key to it, accepting yourself? No, nobody. Oh, yes, my brother has, but he's in Chicago. Was he in Chicago then? Why, yes, I suppose so. I don't know why. Could he have come here that day without your knowing it? Of course he could have done so, and now you speak of it, I remember my wife said she smelled cigar smoke when we came home. I didn't notice it myself. What's your brother's name? Young, Charlie Young. Is he up to anything wrong? Is he up to be? Well, I wouldn't put it past him. Charlie's a case. I've tried to do well by him, but he's been a thorn in my side for years. I'm always expecting to have him turn up in trouble of one sort or another. Yes, if you ask me, he might have been here that day and cut up any sort of monkey shines. Do you know any young lady named Flossie? Nope, never heard of any that I remember. But Charlie has queer friends, if that's what you're getting at. Say tell me more about the pal case if you're from Baryon. How did the murderer get out? I haven't discovered that yet, but I hope to do so. I understand your father was an expert carpenter and joiner. Yes, sir, he was that. He died some four years ago, but I have many examples of his fine work. Want to see some? But Stone could not stay to gratify the son's pride in the paternal accomplishments and the two collars left and went back to Pellbrook. There's the man, said Stone briefly. Charlie Young is the mastermind behind all this devil-tree. Did he kill Aunt Ursula? Asked Iris with angry eyes. I don't say that yet, Stone said cautiously. But he's the man who is after the pin and... The detective fell into a deep study and Iris, busy with her own thoughts, did not interrupt him. She positively identified the house as the one to which she had been taken, and if Mr. Stone said that Charlie Young was the villain who had directed the kidnapping, though he did not appear himself, she had no doubt Stone was right. And I've got a letter that Charlie Young wrote, Stone exalted. I rather think that will go far toward freeing Mr. Bannard. Oh, how? I'd believe that Young wrote that letter signed William Ashton and purposely made it look like the disguised hand of Winston Bannard. It was exactly like Wynn's writing, but different, too. The long-tailed letters were just like Wynn's. Yes, and that helps prove it. If Bannard had tried to disguise his own writing, the first thing he would have thought of would be not to make those peculiar long loops. Now, their present shows a clever trickster's effort to make the writing suggest Bannard at once, but also to suggest a disguised hand. That is clever. How can you ever catch such an ingenious villain? Shall you arrest him at once? Oh, no! To suspect is not to accuse, until we have incontrovertible proof. But we'll get it. Lord, what a brain! And yet it may be easier to catch a smarty like that than a dollar more applauding mind. You see, he is so brilliant of scheme, so quick of execution, that he may well overreach himself and tumble into a trap or two I shall set for him. Doubtless he knows you are here, doesn't he? Surely, but that doesn't matter. If things are going as I hope I'll bag him soon. And yet you're not sure he's the murderer. No, Miss Clyde, and I'm inclined to think he was not. However, we must proceed with caution, but we can work swiftly and I hope reach the end soon. Matters are coming to a focus. As they drove under the pell-broke pot-cauchère, a strange-looking figure ran to greet them. Hello, darky boy, who are you? Sang out stone as the black amour grinned at them. Iris stared and then burst out laughing. Why, it's dearends, she cried. For goodness' sake, fibsy, what have you been doing? The boy was quite as black as any chimney-sweep, indeed as any full blooded negro. He had run up from the cellar at the approach of the motor and stood grinning at Iris and Stone. I'm on a trail, he said, and it's a mighty dark one. Where will it lead you to light? asked Stone, smiling at the earnest blackened face. I hope so, oh, Mr. Stone, I hope so. For the trail is something fierce, believe me. Well, look out, don't get near miss Clyde nor me, either. You're a sight, fibsy. Yes, sir, I know it, and without another word the boy turned and disappeared down the cellar entrance. Iris went into the house, but Stone went down to the cellar to see what fibsy was doing. He found the boy diligently shoveling coal from one large coal bin to another. Nearby was Sam quite as black as fibsy and the two were a comical sight. Sam was seated on a box, rocking back and forth in an ecstasy of glia and crooning, gallol, gallol, pinny pin and gallol. That's what he says, Mr. Stone, fibsy defended himself, so if pinny pin is in the coal hole, I'm going to get her out. And if not, then Sam's fooled me again, that's all. Terrence McGuire, do you mean to say you're going to hunt for a needle in a haystack? I mean a pin in a coal hole? Just that, sir. I'm on to friend Bobokin's curves now, and I fully believe that his present dope is the answer. Anyway, I'm taking no chances. But fibs, it's impossible. Sure it is, that's why I'm doing it. You run away and play, Mr. Stone, and let me work out this end. Didn't you tell me to find the pin? Well, I'm obeying orders. Fibsy turned to his task again, and Stone watched him for a few minutes. The boy laboriously took up the coal in a small shovel, looked at over with sharp scrutiny, and then dumped it into the other bin. By good luck, the bin's adjoined and the task was one of patience and perseverance rather than up difficulty. Stepping toward his faithful assistant, Fleming Stone held out his hand and said quietly, Put it there, Terrence. Eagerly the little black paw slipped into the big strong white one, and the handshake that ensued was all the reward or recognition the happy boy wanted. Stone went upstairs again, and Fibsy whistled gaily as he continued his self-chosen task. Sam, sitting by, cheered him on by continued assertions that he had thrown the pin in the coal bin and had not buried it in the crack of the floor. And as Fibsy had declared, he knew the half-wit now well enough to feel pretty sure when he was telling the truth and when not. Meantime Stone was pursuing his investigations. That afternoon he drove to Red Fox Inn. He went alone, and by dint of bribes and threats he learned that Charlie Young had been there since the day of the murder and had instructed the waiter who had served bannered at his Sunday luncheon to say that bannered was coming from New York and not going to it. These instructions were made as commands and were backed up by certain forcible arguments that ensured they're carrying out. It became clear, therefore, that Young was interested in making it seem that bannered was at Pellbrook on Sunday afternoon instead of Sunday morning, which allotters Stone firmly believed to be the case. Further discrete inquiry proved Young to be a frequent visitor at the inn, on occasions when he was in the locality and that was said to be often, especially of late. Stone went back exultant, his brain working swiftly and steadily toward his solution of the many still-preplexing points. After that afternoon, as it was nearing dusk, a yell from the cellar told without words that Fibse's quest had succeeded. Lucille and Iris followed Fleming Stone's flying footsteps down the stairs and found Fibse, black, but triumphant. Here's your pity pin, Mr. Stone. He cried exhausted from fatigue and excitement and with perspiration streaming down his sooty face. Don't tell me it mayn't be the one. It's got to be. Oh, F.S., it's got to be. Only in moments of strong excitement deterrence addressed his employer by anything but his dignified name, but this moment was a strenuous one and Fibse broke loose. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he gave the detective a pleading look. All right, Fibse, I've no doubt it's the one. Pins don't grow much in call-holes, and though it may not be, a glance at the woeful countenance made him quickly revise his speech. But it is, I'm sure it is. He finished smiling kindly at the big-eyed black-a-moor. Sure, sure! cried Sam, capering about nicey-pinny-pin. Sam put it there after Missy Iris put it in chair. Fleming Stone looked at the pin curiously. As he had been informed it was a common pin of medium size, with nothing about it to distinguish it from millions of brothers that are lost every day everywhere. I'll take it up when there's a better light on it, he said finally. Fibse, you're a Trump, old boy, and after you've sought the assistance that a bathtub grants, return to the sitting-room, and I'll tell you of the value of your find in words of one syllable. He elated beyond all words, Fibse ran away to bathe, and the others went to the sitting-room that had been Ursula Pell's, with a very strong lens Fleming Stone examined the pin. This pin is worth its weight in gold a million times over, he said after the briefest examination. It explains all. Your aunt's bequest, the efforts of young to get it, but I say let's wait till Fibse comes down before I tell you the pin's secret. It's his do after he found it for us. Yes, indeed, wait, agreed Lucille, he'll be down soon. I'll go and call to him to make haste. Don't tell me all, said Iris to Stone as the two were left alone. I want to wait till Terence comes, but tell me this, will it free Winston? I hope so, Stone returned, though it's another part of the mystery, but to my mind Mr. Bannard is freed already. Let me see the pin, and Iris took it in her hand. Why, it is a common pin. How can you say there's anything peculiar about it? He'll know soon, and Stone smiled at her. Anyway, whatever else it means, it doubtless points the way to the recovery of the fortune of Jules that was bequeathed to you and Mr. Bannard. I don't want the fortune unless Winston is freed, said Iris sadly. If you think Charity Young is the criminal, when are you going to get him? But you say you're not sure he killed Aunt Ursula. No, I'm not at all sure that he did. Stone returned gravely. In fact, I'm inclined to think he did not. Then who did? But before Stone could answer, there was an agonized welp from outside as of an animal in pain. Goodness! cried Iris. That's Pompant's cry. Oh, my little dogsy, what has happened? She flew out of the room and ran out on the lawn from which direction she had heard the terrified cry. Remembering the pin as she ran, she stuck it carefully in her belt and hurried to the spot where the sounds proceeded. It was nearly dark now and she sped across the grass in fear for the safety of her pet. Stone started to follow her but Lucille appeared just then and he paused to explain matters to her. When they reached the lawn, Iris was nowhere to be seen and the little dog, cruelly beaten, was whining in pain and distress. Listening intently, Stone heard the last sounds of a disappearing motor-car in the distance. Not again, he cried angrily, and she's got the pin with her. Young of course. Oh, how careless I've been! And calling to Campbell, he ran toward the garage for a car. But how can you follow? asked Lucille distractedly. You don't know which way they went after the turn, do you? No, said Stone despairingly. I don't. End of Chapter 15 Chapter 16 of the Diamond Pin by Carolyn Muelles This Liborvox recording is in the public domain. 16. Kidnapped Again As Stone surmised, Iris was kidnapped again. When she leaned down to gather in her arms the little yelping dog, a figure sprang from the shrubbery and pressing a cloth into and over her mouth, the man lifted her from the ground and carried her swiftly away. Iris was a slender girl and the man had no difficulty in carrying her to a small motor car which was waiting out in the main road. The dusk rendered them nearly invisible and the detention of Stone by Lucille precluded what might have been a capture of the invader. Placed in the car, Iris recognised at once that it was the same one in which she had been carried off before and she well knew it was for the same purpose, to get possession of the pin. But now that Stone had told her it was valuable she had no mind to let it go easily. She sat quietly as the car flew along thinking hard what she would better do. She knew Stone would follow and rescue her if he had heard any signs of her departure. But the car made little noise and the whole affair had been so quickly accomplished that Iris feared Stone knew nothing of it all. She assumed that he would naturally follow her out of doors to learn what had happened to her pet dog but he might not hasten on that errand and a delay of a minute would make his advent of small use to her. They had gone a mile or so when the car turned into a little used path through the woods. Another man was driving the car and her captor sat in the back with Iris. He still held her and kept the cloth which smelled faintly of chloroform over her mouth. At last when well into the woods the car stopped and the man got out and ordered Iris to get out too. Her mind was made up now. She meant secretly to draw the pin from her belt and drop it on the ground. It was running a risk of losing it but it was a worse risk to have this man take it from her and two after Fibsie's successful search of the coal bin she felt pretty sure the boy could find the pin in the woods. She was carefully noting the trees and stones about when the low voice of her tormentor said, You will hand that pin over at once if you please. I'll do no such thing, Iris retorted with spirit. I am not afraid of you. Nor have you reason to be if you give up the pin quietly. As you will find yourself in a sorry predicament. I haven't the pin with me, declared Iris, feeling the falsehood justifiable in the circumstances. I regret to contradict a lady but I don't believe you. The man was masked but Iris recognized his voice and form as she well knew it was the man who had intruded upon her in her aunt's room that night and she was sure it was the man who had instigated the kidnapping in search by Flossie. Moreover she realized it was the man she had seen in Chicago. She felt an anxiety to detain him and somehow to get him in the grip of the law which she could think of no way to do that. She dared not take the pin from her belt for his eyes were upon her and the dusk, though deepening, left sufficient light for him to observe her movements. Now look here, he said speaking more roughly, there's no Flossie here. You don't want me to take all the pins you have in your clothing, do you? This suggestion and the threatening tone of the man frightened Iris more than all that had gone before. She was not afraid of physical violence, something in the man's manner precluded that, but she sensed his desperate determination to secure the pin and she knew he would search her clothing for it if she refused to hand it over. Also she knew there was small use in trying to fool him. Since Stone had verified the fact that there was something about that special pin that made it of value since this man had tried devious ways to get it and since she was absolutely at his mercy the outlook was pretty black. A vague hope that Fleming Stone would come to her rescue was not well-founded, for how could he know that the car that carried her off had turned into that little woodland road? She thought of appealing to the manliness or better nature of her enemy, but she knew that he would only reply that if she would give him the pin he would not trouble her further. An idea of asking help from the man who was in the driver's seat of the car brought only the same conclusion. Come now, said Pollock, for it was by that name she thought of him. I can't waste any more time. If you don't give me that pin in two seconds I'll take it. Don't you dare, exclaimed Iris trying the effect of sheer bravado. Two seconds I'll give you and they've passed. You needn't scream for where far from any habitation. He came nearer to her and touched the frail that was about the neck of her gown. Iris was at her wit's end. She knew she would give up the pin rather than have him search her clothing for it, and yet she meant to put off her surrender as long as possible. His own words gave her a hint, and, though knowing it could do no good, she screamed loud and long. The sound infuriated the man, and he sprang at her grasping her round the waist. Stop that! He cried. Stop or I'll kill you! His fingers were at her throat and his frenzy was such that Iris feared he would carry out his thread on a sudden impulse. But the stranglehold he had on her brought his body near hers, and by chance Iris's hand was flung against his sidecoat pocket where she felt what was indubitably an automatic pistol. Pretending to faint, she let her head sink backward, and he involuntarily put his hand back of her neck to support her. With a quick motion she snatched the pistol from his pocket without his knowledge. Exultant and feeling herself safe, Iris commanded him to release her. He only laughed, and she whispered faintly, Let me go, and I'll... Her voice died away as if from weakness, and he partially released his hold on her which freed entirely her right arm. With a wrench she stepped back and aiming the automatic at him, she said quietly, Step toward me, and I'll fire. With a profane exclamation Pollock clapped his hand to his side pocket and fell back a pace or two. You little Vixen! He cried, Give me that. You'll harm yourself. Oh, no, I won't. But I'll harm you. Unless you give your driver orders to take me straight back home, I shall make this little weapon give good account of itself. From where Iris now stood she covered the two men, and her manner showed no signs of fear as she calmly informed them that a move on the part of either would be followed by a shot. And, she said, While I'm not an expert I can manage to hit at this short range. Come, come now, let's arbitrate, said Pollock, who evidently knew when he was cornered. Give me the pin and I'll go haves with you. Haves of what? Of the treasure? Oh, don't pretend you don't know all about it. Didn't that old smarty cat you've got on the job tell you what the pin means? If he did, you don't know, said Iris talking blindly, for she could make no guess why the pin was a factor in the case at all. Don't I? I'm the only one who does know. Your stone detective can never get a sense worth of good out of that pin without my help. I'm the only one on earth who knows its secret or who can turn it to use. So now, miss, will you make terms? Wait, you needn't take my word for this. Will you agree that if you return safe home with your precious pin and when your precious detective fails to utilize the pin's secret you'll let me disclose it to you and you'll give me half the value of the jewels? I most certainly will not. Then listen, I swear to you that you will never find those hidden jewels. Only I can tell you what the pin means and how it leads to your aunt's fortune. Refuse my offer and neither you nor anyone else will ever see one tiniest gem of your aunt's hoard. There was something in the man's voice that carried conviction. Iris was a good reader of human nature and assurity of his truthfulness came over her. But she was far from willing to accede to his terms. I do not entirely disbelieve you, she said, but I most certainly will not give you the pin. You said you didn't have it. You interrupted me. I was about to say I will not give it to you even after my return home. Then we'll take it now, come on, Bob. Evading the pointed pistol by a quick jump, Pollock dashed it from Iris's hand having really caught her off her guard as she grew interested in their conversation. The driver, Bob, sprang toward them both and they seized Iris between them. A terrific scream from the girl rang through the silent woods and as the pistol struck the ground it went off with a fairly loud report. Iris felt her senses going as the two men clutched her roughly but managed in spite of a restraining hand to give another loud scream. And it was these sounds that guided Pipsi's flying feet toward the scene of conflict. He had come with stone in the car that the detective had used to follow Iris from Pellbrook but as no one knew which way to look for the kidnapper's car they had separated and stone with Campbell went hunting the high roads while Pipsi, senting the truth, had dived into the wood. He had heard Iris's last scream also the noise of the automatic and he blew a loud blast on a shrill whistle as he hurried to the girl. Nearing the three, Pipsi's quick eyes saw the pistol on the ground and he snatched it up and aimed it straight at the masked man. Hands up, he cried, and Pollock turned to see a small but dauntless-looking boy threatening him. Again endangered by his own firearm, Pollock stood at bay, raging but impotent in the face of the steady aim of the boy. In another moment stone came with Campbell in the Pell car and Iris breathed freely once more as she felt stealthily for the pin in her belt ribbon. It was safe and she sank down on the ground, satisfied to let the newcomers take charge of the whole matter. This they did with neatness and dispatch. Bidding Pipsi keep the two men covered with a small but efficacious weapon, stone and Campbell tied the hands of Pollock and his man Bob using the dust robe from Pollock's car cut into strips for the purpose. Then they bundled them unceremoniously into their own car and Stone himself took the wheel. Campbell drove Iris home but Pipsi traveled with his chief. The boy was thrilling with satisfaction at the way things were turning out and not at all vain glorious over his own part in the affair. Stone turned the two men over to the police on a charge of kidnapping and then elated returned to Pellbrook. How can I be grateful enough to you, Iris cried at the sight of the detective for coming to my aid? And Pipsi too? Oh, what should I have done if you hadn't arrived just as you did? But how did you know where we were? I didn't, said Stone. It was Pipsi's idea that the man would take to the woods. But your screams and the noise of the revolver led us at the last. I congratulate you, Miss Clyde, on a pretty narrow escape. Those men were desperate. Oh, I know it. Pollock began by being fairly courteous but when I wouldn't give up the pin he grew rough and rude. Miss Clyde, we must look out for that pin, though now that the one who wants it isn't safe keeping himself there's not so much danger. But he may have clever assistance. By the way, there's no doubt that this so-called Pollock is Charlie Young. Hughes is putting him through a third degree and I think we need not concern ourselves about him just now. He won't escape from his present quarters easily. This child must go to bed now, said Lucille Daryl with an affectionate glance at Iris. She's had enough to upset any ordinary set of nerves and she must rest. Yes, Miss Clyde, go now and I think if you leave the pin with me I'll keep it safely and moreover tomorrow morning I'll tell you its secret. Oh, tell me now, please, do Mr. Stone. What can it be that makes it a key to the jewel's hiding place? Not tonight. Indeed, I don't yet know its secret myself, but I hope to find it out. If I may, I'll stay alone in Mrs. Bell's sitting room for a time until I puzzle it out. Iris reluctantly went off with Lucille and the detective locked himself in the room where Mrs. Bell had met her tragic death. He had, as his working implements, the pin, a strong magnifying glass, a thick pad of paper, and a lead pencil. As the first streaks of dawn began to show in the eastern heavens, Fleming Stone had, as results of his night's work, forty or fifty scribbled pages of the pad, all of which were in the wastebasket, a small remaining stub of lead pencil and the pin and the magnifying glass. Also, he had a heavy heart and a feeling of despair and dejection. He went to his room for a few hours' sleep before breakfast time, and when he met the family at table he said shortly, finding a needle in a haystack is child's play compared to the task ahead of us. He refused to explain until after breakfast, and then Iris and Lucille went with him to the sitting room and the door was closed upon them. Lucille was there, too, as the boy was never excluded from important conferences. Stone locked the door and then said impressively, The diamond pin bequeathed you by your aunt, Miss Clyde, for my far more valuable inheritance than any diamond pin I have ever seen. I congratulate you on the possession of the pin, and I ask you where the dime is. Gracious, I don't know, replied Iris. I threw it out of the window the day I received it, and I've never thought of it since. The pin is a key to the hiding place of the jewels as I will explain fully in a few minutes, Stone proceeded, but it may be necessary to recover the dime also before we can utilize the information given us by the pin. Iris looked bewildered but repeated her statement as to the whereabouts of the dime. And again, Stone said, the dime may be of no importance in the matter. I'm inclined to think it is not because Pollock, or young rather, made no effort to gain possession of the dime, did he? No, I think not. The first day he called on me as Mr. Pollock and wanted the pin, I told him he might search the lawn for the dime if he chose, but I don't think he did so. I'll find the dime if it's out in the side yard, Fibsey volunteered. Now, I'll tell you what this pin is, Resumed Stone holding up the mysterious bit of brass. It contains a cipher, a cryptogram. How can it? asked Iris blankly. On the head of this pin is engraved a series of letters which form a cipher message telling of the hiding-place of your aunt's jewels. On the head of that little pin, impossible. It does seem impossible, but I assure you that on the surface of the head of this pin there are thirty-nine letters which, meaningless in themselves, form a cipher statement, if we can solve their message, if we can, cried Iris, we must. You bet Mr. Stone will work it out if it's a cipher, Fibsey declared looking with pride and confidence at his employer's face. Not so easy, Fibs. Stone returned. It's a cryptogram which necessitates another bit of information, a keyword before it can possibly be solved. By the way, Ms. Clyde, that's what your aunt's diary means by its reference to the jewels being hidden in a crypt. If you read her diary carefully you'll see that she very frequently abbreviates her words, not only T-U-E-S for Tuesday and D-E-C for December, but other words just as the whim took her. So as we may conclude, the word crypt stands for cryptogram. And here's the cryptogram. Now, to explain this seemingly miraculous feat of engraving thirty-nine letters on the head of an ordinary pin, I'll say that it is not an unheard of accomplishment. Several years ago I saw in exhibition a pin with forty-five letters to it, and I have seen one or two other similar marvels. They are done in every instance by a most expert engraver who has much time and infinite patience and capacity for carefulness. Indeed, it is an art all by itself, and I doubt if there are many people in the world who could accomplish it at all. Can you show them to me? Iris asked her eyes wide with wonder. Oh yes, you can see them with this glass, though even with its aid you may have difficulty in making out the letters. Iris looked long and carefully through the powerful lens and finally declared that she could discern the letters but could not read them clearly. Stone passed the pin in glass to Miss Daryl and continued. I spent nearly the whole night over it. I have copied off the letters so now if the pin should be stolen, at least we have its secret. Though I confess the secret is still a secret. Let me see it, begged Fibsie, as Miss Daryl gave up the effort to make out the letters at all. The younger eyes of the boy read them with comparative Vs. O-I-N-V-L-D-L, he spelled out. Sounds like gibberish, but all ciphers do that. Why, Mr. Stone, the letters are clear enough and you can read any cipher that ever was made up, I'll bet. You know you first see what letters used most and that's E. Hold on, Terence, not so fast. That's one kind of a cipher to be sure. But this is another sort. These are the letters. O-I-N-V-L-D-L-Q-P-S-V-T-H-P-J-R-C-R-N-O-X-X-I-V-V-A-Y-O-D-I-J-Y-A-W-W-K-M-E-U. There's no division into words which, of course, makes it infinitely more difficult. Aunt Ursula was crazy over ciphers, exclaimed Iris. She was always making them up. But she always called them ciphers, never cryptograms, or perhaps I might have thought that crypt was an abbreviation. But can't you guess it, Mr. Stone? One doesn't guess ciphers, they must be solved. And this one is of that peculiar kind that needs an arbitrary keyword for its solution without the knowledge of which there is little hope of ever getting the answer. And you give it up. Oh, no, indeed. I shall solve it, but we must find the word we need to make it clear. END OF CHAPTER XVI CHAPTER SEVENTEEN OF THE DIAMOND PIN BY CAROLINE WELLS This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. SEVENTEEN. THE CYPHER And how would the dime help if we had it? Iris pursued the subject. I'm not at all sure that it would, Stone replied. But there must be some hint on it as to the key word. I tried an ordinary dime thinking the word we need might be liberty or united or America, but none of those would work. I tried to think out a way where the date on the dime would help. But you don't know the date. No, but I tried to find a way where a date would apply, but I can't think figures are needed, it's a word we must have. Words on dimes are all alike, suggested Lucille. Yes, but suppose a word had been engraved on this particular dime as these letters are engraved on the pin. But Ursula would have been quite capable of such a scheme, Iris averred, for she had most ingenious notions about puzzles and ciphers. Sometimes she would offer me a bail of large denomination or a check for a goodly sum if I could guess from the data she gave me what the figures were. And did you? Never. I have no head for that sort of thing. It made my brain swim when she finally explained it to me. And yet I can't think the dime is necessary for the solution of the scriptogram, Stone went on, or Young would have tried to get that also. However, now we have the man himself, he must be made to give up whatever knowledge he possesses. He won't, Iris said positively. Vipsy was pouring over the string of letters which he had copied from Stone's paper. That's so, FS, he said, blinking thoughtfully. There aren't enough duplicates of any letter to be in E. This is a square alphabet with a key word, sure. Good for you, Terrence. And Stone smiled approvingly. You're a real genius for ciphers. Now where's the key word to be looked for? On that paper, Mrs. Bell left to Mr. Bannerd, and Vipsy's eyes sparkled at the idea that suddenly sprang to his brain. Why, of course, Mr. Stone. I didn't know I was going to say that till it just came of itself. But don't you see? She left the fin to Miss Clyde and the receipt to Mr. Bannerd, and it takes them both to solve the cipher. And that receipt was stolen by the man who murdered Ursula Bell, said Miss Daryl. He must have known its value. It may be you've had an inspiration, Fipsy, conceded Stone, and it may be the word is not on that receipt, after all, but we must use every effort to get the paper and also to find that dime. It may well be a word is engraved on the coin in the same microscopic letters as these on the pinhead. We must try both means of solution. Will you hunt the dime, Fips? Sure, but I'll bet the word is on the paper. Elsewise the old ladies say that Mr. Bannerd would find the receipt of interest to him. And, too, as she left the jewels to two heirs, fifty-fifty, it stands to reason part of the means of finding them should be given to each party. That's mere conjecture, Stone said. But we'll look up both. I've worked hours over the cipher, and I've proved to my own satisfaction that it cannot be solved without the knowledge of the one word needed. It's like the combination of a safe. You have to know the word, or you can never open the door. Tell me a little about it, just what you mean by key word, Beg Lucille. I know nothing of ciphers. I make it out that this cryptogram is built on what we call the Confederacy Cipher, Stone informed her. It is a well-known plan and is much used by our own government and by others. It is the safest sort of a cipher if the key word is carefully guarded. To make it clear to you I will put on this paper the alphabet block. Stone took a large sheet of paper and wrote the alphabet straight across its top. He then wrote the alphabet straight down the left hand side. He then filled in the letters in their correct rotation and showed her the result. The way to use this, he explained, is to take a key word, let us say Daryl. Then let us suppose this message reads, the jewels are hidden in blank. Of course I'm only supposing this to show you our difficulties. I write the message and place the code word or key word above it, thus. Rel dar, rel daryl, da. Jewels are hidden in. We repeat the key word over and over as may be necessary. Then we take the first letter D and find it in the line across the top of our alphabet square and the letter under D, which is T, we find in the left hand perpendicular line. Now trace the D line down and the T line across until the two meet, which gives us W. This would be the first letter of the cipher message if the key word were darryl and the message like our suggested one. But the first letter of the cipher we have to solve is O and no possible amount of guessing can go any further unless we have the key word Mrs. Bell used to guide us. See? Yes, I see. And Miss Darryl nodded her head. It's most interesting. But as the first letter of the cipher is O, why can't you find O in your alphabet and go ahead? Because there are 26 Os in the square and it needs the key word to tell which of the 26 we want. It's perplexing, but I see the plan. Lucille studied the paper. However, I doubt if I could make it out even if I had the word. Oh, yes, you could. And if we get the dime and the receipt that was in the pocketbook we can try every word on them both and I feel sure we'll get the answer. Now, since Pollock, or young, rather was so desirous of getting the pin, I argue that he had the necessary key word. Therefore we must get it from him if we can't get it ourselves, and I doubt if he'll give it up willingly. Of course he has the key word, Iris said, for he told me he could find the jewels and no one else could if I'd hand over the pin. And he offered to go haves with me. The idea. And yet if he has the key word and won't give it up you can never find the jewels, observed stone. You don't advise me to accept his offer, do you? No, Miss Clyde, I certainly do not. But there is another phase of this matter, you know. If Charlie Young stole that paper from the pocketbook he was the one who attacked your aunt. And Winston Bannard is in jail in his place. Oh, Mr. Stone let the jewels be a secondary consideration, get when freed and Charles Young accused of the murder. He must be the guilty man. It looks that way, Stone mused, and yet Bannard admits he was here that Sunday morning and had an interview with his aunt. Did he not have obtained possession of the receipt? Oh, don't look like that. Perhaps his aunt gave it to him willingly. Perhaps she told him of its value. Oh, no! cried Iris. If all that had happened, when would have told me? No. When he discovered that receipt was left to him and was especially referred to in the will, he was amazed and disappointed to find that old pocketbook empty. He seemed to be, said Stone, but his manner gave no hint of accusation of Bannard's insincerity. Mr. Bannard, he ain't the murderer, declared Fipsy, and that young he ain't neither, because how'd they get out? How did the murderer get out whoever he was, countered Stone? He didn't, said the boys simply. It was soon after that Hughes came to Pellbrook to report progress. That Charlie Young, he said, he's a queer dick. Will he talk? asked Stone. Talk? Nothing but. He tells the most astonishing things. He vows he's in cahoots with Winston Bannard. That isn't true, Iris cried out. When isn't guilty himself, of course, but he isn't mixed up with a man like Charlie Young, either. Young says, Hughes went on, that the note asking for the pin is in Bannard's disguised writing. He says that Bannard put him up to kidnapping Ms. Clyde and getting the pin from her so they too could get the jewels and... What utter rubbish, Iris said disdainfully. Do you mean that Mr. Bannard wanted to get the jewels away from me and have both his share and my own? Ridiculous. It seems, Ms. Clyde, Hughes stated, that Young has part of some directions or something like that as to where to find the jewels, and he made it up with Bannard to get the pin which he claims is a key to their hiding place and the two men were to share the loot. I never heard such absurdity. Iris's eyes blazed with anger. Mr. Stone, won't you go and interview this Young and tell him he lies? I'll assuredly interview him, Ms. Clyde, but suppose Mr. Bannard did have that paper, that receipt. He didn't. Why, if he had, why would he confer with that bad man? Why not by means of his paper which is, you know, lawfully his and my pin which was bequeathed to me? Why not? Because two things are all that is necessary find the jewels by their aid. That's the point, Stone said. It does seem as if Young possesses some information of importance. Well, Iris went on angrily. Now they've got the two of them there, why can't you confront Winston with Young and let them tell the truth? Perhaps they won't, Hughes put in. You know, Ms. Clyde, we didn't arrest Mr. Bannard without thinking there was enough evidence against him to warrant it. You did? That's just what you did. There wasn't any evidence, that is, none of importance. Mr. Stone, you don't think we're guilty, do you? Here Iris broke down and, shaking with convulsive sobs, she let Lucille lead her from the room. Of course she's upset, Hughes said, with sympathy in his hard voice. But she's got trouble ahead. I think she's in love with Winston Bannard. Oh, do you? Herb Fibsey unable to control his sarcasm. Why, what perspicaciousness you have got. And you are quite right, Mr. Hughes. Ms. Clyde is so much in love with that suspect of yours that she can't think straight. Now lookie here, Mr. Bannard didn't kill his aunt. Is that so, bub? Well, as Mr. Dooley says, your opinion is interesting but not convincing. All right, go ahead in your own blunder and way. But how did Mr. Bannard get out of the locked room? Always fall back on that, son. It's a fine climax where you don't know what to say next. I'll answer as I always do. How did any other murderer get out of the room? He didn't, said Fibsey. Oh, and is he in there yet? Nope, but I can't waste any more time on you, friend Hughes. I have something to attend to. Mr. Stone, I'll go and get that dime now, shall I? Go ahead, Fibs. Stone returned absently, and I'll go along with you, Hughes, and see if I can make anything out of your new prisoner. Fibsey went first in search of Sam, and, having found that defective minded but sturdy-bodied lad, undertook to inform him as to their immediate occupation. See? And Fibsey showed Sam a dime. You find me one like that in the grass and I'll give you two of them. Two. Two for Sam. Yes, three if you find one quick. Now get busy. Fibsey showed him how to search in the short grass of the well-kept lawn, and he himself went to work also, diligently seeking the dime Iris had flung out of the window in her irritation. While Sam lacked intellect, he had a dogged perseverance, and he kept on grubbing about after Fibsey had become so weary and crapped that he was almost ready to postpone further search until afternoon. They had pretty well scoured the area in which the flung coin would be likely to fall, and just as Fibsey sang out, give it up, Samavelle, until this afternoon, the lad found it. Here's dime. He cried picking it from the grass. Sammy find it all alone-y. Good for you, old chap. You're a trump. Hooray! But give Sammy dimes, two, three dimes. You bet I will. Here. Here are five dimes for Sammy. Eagerly the innocent received the coins and scampered away, having no further interest than the one he had found. Fibsey examined the dime but could see no engraving on it, nor any letters other than those the United States Mint had put there. The date was 1892, if that meant anything. Carefully wrapping it in a bit of paper, Fibsey stowed it in his pocket and went into the house to await Flemingstone's return. And when Stone did return, it required no great discernment to see that he was dejected and discouraged. He received the dime with a smile of hearty approval, but it was quickly followed by a reappearance of the distressed frown that betokened non-success. What's up, Mr. Stone, Fibsey inquired. Not my luck, was the reply. Fibs were up against it. Let her go. What's the answer? Well, that young is a hard nut to crack. Not for you, F.S. Yes, for me or for anybody. He's got a perfect alibi. Always distressed the perfect alibi. That's one of the first things you taught me, Mr. Stone. I know it, Fibs, but this alibi is unimpeachable. A peach of an alibi, eh? That indeed. You remember Joe Young over at East Falville. Yes, sir, I do. Well, he says that his brother, Chardy Young, was at his house to dinner on that Sunday that Mrs. Bell was killed. He says Chardy arrived about half past twelve, and he stayed there until about four o'clock. Says they were together all that time. Now, that man Joe Young is, I am sure, an honest man. Besides, his story is verified by his wife. Of course Chardy Young declares he was at his brothers during those hours, and in the face of all the corroboration I can't disbelieve it. But granting that alibi, who is left to suspect but Winston Bannerd? How'd Young catch on to all the pin and diamond receipt business anyway? Asked Fibsie with seeming irrelevance. I don't know, I'm sure. There's something back of that, and Fibsie wagged a sagacious nod. Maybe. But whatever's back of it may incriminate Young to the extent of trying to get the pin from Miss Clyde, perhaps even having stolen the receipt from Bannerd, but it positively lets him out of any implication in the murder. Oh, I don't know. Why child, if he was really at Joe Young's house from noon till four o'clock, how could he have been here at the time Mrs. Bell was killed? He couldn't. Fibsie was taciturn, but his knitted brow told of deep thought. I got a hunch, Mr. Stone. That's all I can say for the minute. It may not be right, and then again it may, but I got a hunch. All right, Fibs, work it out in your own way. But remember that Alibi stands. I can see a leak in a story as quickly as the next man, but that Joe Young is honest as the day and his wife is, too. And when they assert, we telephone them, you know, when they assert that Chardy Young was there at that time I believe he was. I believe it too, Mr. Stone. Now what about that dime? Fleming Stone took his strong magnifying glass and studied the coin. Nothing on it, Fibs, except what belongs there. It might have been as I hoped that the key word was one of these words that are stamped on, but I tried them all, any dime was all right for that. This particular tense-set piece has no distinguishing characteristics that I can see. The ages of no help, I think, for unless I'm all together wrong as to the type of cipher, figures are not usable. But I'll keep it safe until I'm sure it's no good. All right, Mr. Stone, now I guess I'll work on my hunch. Want a help? Yes, if it isn't beyond my power. Oh, come now! And Fibsie blushed scarred it at the realization that he seemed to plume himself on his own cleverness, but here's the way I'm going about it. Say I'm the murderer. Say that door's locked on this side. We were alone in Mrs. Pell's sitting-room. Let's lock it to help along the local color, suggested Stone, and he did so. Yes, sir. Now, but say, Mr. Stone, wait a minute. What became of those ropes? Ropes? Yes, that the murderer bound her ankles with and her wrists. Weren't we told that there were marks on her wrists and ankles where she'd been bound with ropes? Yes, well, the murderer took those away with him. Did he bring him with him? Probably. Then it wasn't Mr. Bannerd. If he killed his aunt, which he didn't, he never came up here with a load of ropes and things. But never mind that now. Say I'm the murderer. I've attacked the old lady and I've got the paper I wanted and all that. Now how do I get out? Fleming Stone watched the boy, fascinated. Absorbed in the spirit of his imagined predicament, Fibsie stood, his bright eyes darting about the room as if really in search of a means of exit. End of Chapter 17. CHAPTER 18 of THE DIMANT PIN by Carolein Wells. This Leibov-Auch's recording is in the public domain. 18. Solution at last. I am here, he muttered. I have killed her, or at least she is dying, lying there on the floor dying. I have to get out before the servants break in. I can't get out. There's no way I can get out. Mr. Stone, he didn't get out because... Because he wasn't in, interrupted Fleming Stone excitedly. Oh, Fibs, do you see it that way, too? Sure I do. Fancy anybody untieing a lot of ropes and freeing the lady and making a getaway ropes and all in two or three minutes, and besides, he couldn't get out. Fibsie stated this as triumphantly as if it were a new proposition. The upset table, he went on. The smashed lamp with its long green cord, the poor lady's dress open at the throat. Yes, Stone nodded eagerly. Yes, and I daresay she had lace frills at her wrists and neck. Of course she did. Oh, the plucky one! And then the two investigators put their heads together and reconstructed to their own satisfaction the whole scene of Mrs. Pell's tragic death. I'll go right over to see Young again, Stone said at last, and you skip around to see Mrs. Bowen. She'll tell you more than Miss Clyde can. Of course she will, and the Dominique, too. After a long argument, Fleming Stone persuaded Young that it would really be better for him to tell the truth as to his movements on that fatal Sunday than to persist in his falsehoods. Stone did not tell the prisoner of his brother's confirmation of his unimpeachable alibi, but he told him that he was sure he did not murder Mrs. Pell. However, Stone said, unless you tell the truth about her death, you will not only be suspected but convicted. And finally, seeing it was his best hope, Young told his story. I went to the house about half past 11 Sunday morning, he stated. Everybody had gone to church, and the old lady was there alone. What did you go for? To get that receipt and the pin? Why those two things? I had the reason to think that they met the discovery of her great hoard of jewels. I'm telling you all, for I want to prove that I not only did not kill the lady, but had no thought or intention of doing so. You took ropes along to tie her with? Hardly that. I had some strong twine, as I thought she might prove fractious, and I was determined to get the pin and paper. How did you ever know about those things? My uncle made the pin, engraved it, I mean. He was a marvellously expert engraver in the firm of Craig Marsden and Company. After his death I came across a memorandum that gave away the secret. Not the solution of the cipher exactly, he didn't know that himself. But a statement that he had engraved the pin for Mrs. Bell in that, with the receipt for the work itself, it formed a direction as to where the jewels were hidden. And you demanded these things of her? Yes, I told her the jewels belonged partly to my uncle. Did they? No, not exactly, though Mrs. Bell had promised him some small stones and I'm not sure she gave them to him. Go on, tell it all. I'm willing to, for my game is up and I want to get away from a murder charge. My heavens, I'd never think of killing anybody. Wait a minute. You say you reached the house about eleven thirty. How did you come? I was in my little car. I left that in the woodland road. And that's when Sam saw you. I suppose so, I didn't see him. Did you see Bannert? I did. He was coming away from the house as I started toward it. He didn't see you? No, I took good care of that. Then he did go away at nearly noon and he was on his way down to New York when he stopped at the Red Fox Inn. Yes, his story is all true. I fixed up the inn people to put it the other way because I feared for my own skin. You are a fine specimen. Well, go on. Well I was bound to get that pin. I asked Mrs. Bell for it and she laughed. She wasn't a bit afraid of me, plucky old thing. I had to tie her while I hunted round. She was ready to scratch my eyes out. And you beat her, bruised her. No more than I had to. She struggled like a wildcat. And you upset the table in your scrap? I did not, nor smashed the lamp, nor did I dash her to the floor. I'm telling you the exact truth because there's so much seeming evidence against me that I'm playing safe. I searched all the room and I found the paper but I couldn't find the pin. You cut out her pocket. I did, but I didn't tear open her gown at the throat nor did I fling her to the floor to kill her on the fender. I finally untied her and went away, leaving her practically unharmed, save for a few bruises. Why, man, she was a dinner after that with guests present. And where were you? I went right over to my brothers. I suppose you won't believe this. You'll think he's standing by me to save my life, but it's true. I reached Joe's by half past twelve and I stayed there till four or so. There was nobody more surprised than I to hear of Mrs. Pell's murder. I left that woman alive and well. The slight bruises were nothing as is proved by her presence at the dinner table. I can't see why she didn't tell of your visit. She was a very peculiar woman and she had it in for me. I think she felt that she could get me and punish me with more surety by biting her time till she could see her lawyer or somebody like that. It seems to me in keeping with her peculiar disposition that she kept my attack on her a secret until she chose to reveal it. Mr. Young, I wouldn't believe this strange story of yours but for your brother's statements and my absolute conviction of your brother's honesty. Both he and his wife tell a straightforward tale of your arrival and departure on that Sunday, which exactly coincides with your own. And there is other corroboration. Now you are held here as you know for other reasons. Biting is a crime and not a slight one, either. I know it, Mr. Stone, and I'll take my punishment for that, but I'm not guilty of murder. I was possessed to get hold of that pin. I planned clever schemes to get it, but they all went arry and I became desperate. So when I found a chance I took it. I did misclide no real harm and I was willing to go halves with her. The day I had two friends take her to my brother's house, he being away for the day she was in no danger and at but slight inconvenience. Flossy as misclide will tell you herself was neither rude nor ungracious. Never mind all that, now give me the receipt. Young hesitated, but a warning scowl from Stone persuaded him and with a sigh he handed over what was without doubt the receipt in question. This is Winston Bannerd's property, said the detective, and you do well to give it up. There was much to be done, but Fleming Stone was unable to resist the temptation to go home at once and work out the cryptogram if possible by the aid of the receipt. The paper itself was merely a bill for the engraving on the pin. The price charged was five hundred dollars and the bill was receded by J. S. Farrell who, Young had said, was the man who did the engraving. There were various words on the bill, both printed and written. Working with feverish intensity Stone tried them one by one and when he used the word Farrell as a key word he found he had at last succeeded in his undertaking. Beginning with F-E-R-R-A-L-L, F-E-R-R-A-L-L and so on he pursued his course by finding F in his top alphabet line. Running downward until he struck O he noted that was in the cross line beginning with J. J, therefore, was the first letter of the message. Next he found E at the top and traced that line down to I which gave him E for his second letter. Going on thus he soon had the full message which read, Jewels all between L and M, seek and ye shall find. This solved the cipher but was far from being definite information. In a conclave all agreed that the message was as bewildering as the cipher itself. Mr. Chapin could give no hint as to what was meant, neither Iris nor Lucille Darrell could imagine what L and M stood for. Seems like a filing cabinet or card catalog suggested Stone but Iris said her aunt had not owned such a thing. Well, we'll find them, Stone promised. Having this information will somehow puzzle out the rest. Look in the dictionary or encyclopedia, put in Fibsi who was scowling darkly in his efforts to think it out. You can't hide a lot of jewels in a book, exclaimed Lucille. No, but there might be a paper there telling more. However no amount of search brought forth anything of the sort and they all thought again. When were these old things hidden? Fibsi asked suddenly. The receipt is dated ten years ago, said Stone. Of course that doesn't prove. Where'd she live then? Here, replied Iris, but I've sometimes imagined that she took her jewels back to her old home in Maine to hide them. Hence she dropped now and then gave me that impression. Whereabouts in Maine? In a village called Greendale. Her folks all lived there. I think her parents did. What are their names? Did they begin with L or M? No, both with E. They were Elmer and Emily, I think. Whoop, whoop! Fibsi sprang up in his excitement and waved his arms triumphantly. That's it. L and M means L and M. Elmer and Emily. Absurd, scoffed Lucille, but Iris said. You're right, Terrence. You are right. That would be exactly like Aunt Ursula and the jewels are buried between their two graves in the old Greendale cemetery. I dimly remember some things auntie said or sort of hinted at that would just prove that very thing. It sounds probable, Stone agreed, and Mr. Chapin said it was in his mind, too, that Mrs. Spell had hinted at Maine as her hoarding place, though he had partially forgotten it. But this is merely surmise, Stone reminded them, and while it may be the truth, yet is it not possible that investigation will only give us further directions or more puzzles to work out? It is not only possible, but very probable, said Mr. Chapin. I know my late client's character well enough to think that she made the discovery of her hoard just as difficult as she could. It was a queer twist in her brain that impelled her to play these fantastic tricks. Moreover, I can't think she would trust that fortune in gems to the lonely and unprotected earth of a cemetery. That's just what she would do, Iris insisted. And really, what could be a safer hiding place? Who would dream of digging between two old graves unless instructed to do so? And who could know of these secret and hidden instructions? That's all so, Miss Clyde, Stone agreed with her. I think it a marvellously well-chosen place of concealment, and I am inclined to think the jewels themselves are there. But it may not be so. It may be we have further to look, more ciphers to solve. But at least we are making progress. Now who will make a trip to Maine? Not I. And Iris shook her head. I care for the fortune, of course, but it is nothing to me beside the freedom of Mr. Bannert. I hope, Mr. Stone, that Charley Young's confession of how he bruised and hurt poor Aunt Ursula proves Wynn's innocence and—not entirely, Miss Clyde—you see, we have his proof that Mr. Bannert left this house at half past eleven or just before Young arrived, but that won't satisfy the police that Mr. Bannert did not return at three o'clock or thereabouts. But he was on his way to New York, then. So he says, but the courts insist on proof or testimony of a disinterested witness. But surely someone can be found who saw Wynn between the time he lunched at the inn and the time he reached his rooms in New York. That's what we're hoping, but we haven't found that witness yet. Well, anyway, Iris pursued the people who saw him at the inn, at what time? At about half past twelve or so, I think. Well, their word proves that Wynn wasn't hidden here while we were at dinner as some have suspected. That's a good point, Miss Clyde. Now, if we can find a later witness— But who did commit the murder? asked Lucille. You've put that young out of the question now. Lord knows I don't suspect Wynn Bannert, but who did it? And how did he get out? added Phibsi with the grim smile that often accompanied that unanswerable question. He must be found, Iris exclaimed. I told you at the outset, Mr. Stone, that I want to avenge Aunt Ursula's death as well as find the fortune she left. Even if suspicion clings to Mr. Bannert. He didn't do it. All the suspicion in the world can't hurt him because it isn't true. I shall free him if necessary by my own efforts. Truth must prevail. But more than that I want the murderer found. I want the mystery of his exit solved. I want to know the whole truth and after that we'll go to dig for the treasure. If no one knows of the meaning of the cipher message but just us few, no one else can get ahead of us and dig before we get there. Please, please, Mr. Stone, let the jewels wait and put all your energies towards solving the greater mystery of Aunt Ursula's death. A strong point in favor of Mr. Bannert, Stone said thoughtfully, is the fact of the clues that seemed to incriminate him. If he had been a murderer, would he have left the half-smoked cigarette so easily traced to him? Would he have gone off with a check drawn that very day in his pocket? And the paper he left that, exclaimed Lucille. No, said Stone, he didn't leave that. Young left that. How do you know? Because Young was staying at a boarding-house up in Harlem and the New York paper, still unfolded, had in it a circular of the Harlem laundry. That's why I remarked to Terence that the man who left that came from near Bob Grady's place, which is a saloon near the laundry in question. That paper never came from the locality where Bannert lives. And that proved Mr. Young's presence, Phipsy said, just as the cigarette proved Mr. Bannert's. Now neither of those men would have left those clues if they had murdered the lady. I've always heard that a murderer does do just some such thoughtless thing, remarked Chapin. This murderer didn't, and Phipsy shook his head. When you're going to tell him, Mr. Stone? Is Mrs. Bowen coming over? Yes, sir, and here she comes now. The minister's wife came hurrying into the room and stared at the detective. You sent for me, Mr. Stone? I don't know anything about. Nothing that seems to you important, perhaps. But please answer a few simple questions. Did Mrs. Pell wear lace frills at her wrists and throwed at dinner that Sunday you were here? I've asked Miss Clyde and she can't remember. Yes, sir, she did. I recollect I had never seen her wearing such full and elaborate ones before. Did you notice anything else peculiar about her attire? Only a spot of blood on the instep of her white stalking. Did you make any mention of it? No. I thought at the time a mosquito had bitten her, but afterward I heard it remarked at the inquest that her ankles had been tied and cut by cords until they bled a little. I can't see how that could have happened before dinner. That's just when it did happen. I think, my friends, that I will now tell you what I am positive is the truth of this matter, though it will at first seem to you incredible. Will you let me reconstruct the whole day as far as I can? Mrs. Pell was on her veranda when her niece and her servants went to church. Soon after, Winston Bannerd came. They went into Mrs. Bell's sitting-room and she willingly gave her nephew a check for a large amount. Bannerd went away, leaving behind a half-burned cigarette, but nothing else that we know of. Immediately came Charlie Young. He entered Mrs. Bell's sitting-room and found her there alone. The house doors were all open. He demanded the pin and he threatened her and finally he used rough treatment. He cut out her pocket in his desperate determination to secure the pin and the receipt which later he found in the old pocket book. He tied her in a chair that he might better make undisturbed and finally went away, taking with him the court with which he had bound her, the receipt and such monies that he had found about the room and leaving behind his New York paper. Then, left bruised and hurt, Mrs. Pell, instead of following the procedure of the usual woman, pulled herself together and angry and indignant, told no one of her awful experience, but attended the dinner table and entertained her guests as if nothing untoward had occurred. She did not change her gown but she added wrist brails to conceal her bruises and she doubtless failed to notice the stain on her stocking. Then, after dinner, after the guests departed and Mrs. Clyde had gone to her own room, Mrs. Pell went into her sitting-room to rest and perhaps to plan vengeance on her assailant. But weak from shock, perhaps ill and dizzyed, she stumbled over that long cord that is attached to the table lamp, upset lamp and table, and herself fell and hit her head on the fender. Doubtless she herself pulled open the neck of her gown as she gassed her last. She called out for help and cried thieves in a dazed remembrance of the attack that had been made on her by the thief. She locked the door, of course, when she first entered the room. I'm told that was her invariable custom of a Sunday afternoon. Then after the poor lady screamed out with her dying breath, the servants came and were forced to break in the door to effect an entrance. That's it all right and it all checks up, said Phippsy because why, because there ain't any other explanation that'll fit all the circumstances. Nor was there, it did all check up. Further evidence was sought and found. Witnesses proved the truth of Banner's declarations. Sam identified young as the man he had seen prowling round in the woods that morning and everything fitted in like the pieces of a picture puzzle. There was no way for a murderer to escape from that locked room because there was no murderer and had been no murder. Young's was not a murderous assault, though it was enough to earn him his well-deserved punishment, and the fact that the servants heard the crash of the overset table and lamp proved that it had not happened at the time of Young's visit. No one had chance to enter Mrs. Pell's sitting room between the call of Young and the breaking in of the door so the ransacked desk and the open safe were not discovered. What had been taken from the safe they never knew, for Young declared there was nothing in it and they partially believed him. But the jewels which were found buried between the graves of Ursula Pell's parents, Elmer and Emily Pell, were of sufficient value to make it a matter of little moment what was stolen from the safe. And Winston Banner'd was set free and came home in triumph to the smiling girl awaiting him. Only Fleming Stone knew that when Banner'd had been so evasive and taciturn regarding himself because he feared that if he were freed Iris might be suspected. He gave Iris the glory of bringing about his release and though she disclaimed it she whispered to him, I said I would win for win. The only thing that bothered me was that note seemingly in your writing though disguised. I know, said Banner'd, and I knew somebody did that to make it seem like me but I couldn't think who the villain could be. It was all a mighty close squeak, bibsy said thoughtfully. I believe the key note was struck when Sam told me he had dropped the pinny-pin in the call-all. If he hadn't we never would have got anywhere. We wouldn't have then, said Stone generously, if bibsy hadn't grout in the call-all for the pinny-pin. And found it, chimed in Banner'd, in recognition of which one Terence Maguire Esquire shall receive shortly one diamond-pin. Ah, shucks, said bibsy, greatly embarrassed at the praise heaped upon him, but, he added, I'd like it a heap. And he did. End of CHAPTER XVIII of THE DIMANT PIN by Caroline Wells. Recorded by Céline Maggiore.