The Diamond Pin

"Oh, no, I think that would be horrid. You go, if you like. I shan't."

But Iris went out on the verandah with Bannard, and they ran into Sam Torrey, the brother of Agnes.

"Hello, Sam," said Bannard. "What's that you were saying about seeing a man around here Sunday morning."

"Not morning, but noon," declared Sam, gazing with lack-luster eyes at his questioner.

"Brace up, now, Sam, tell me all you know," and Bannard looked the boy squarely in the eye.

Sam, about seventeen, or so, was of undeveloped intellect, called by the neighbors half-witted. But if pinned down to a subject and his attention kept on it, he could talk pretty nearly rationally.

"Know lots. Saw man here – there – near edge of woods – nice little car, oh, awful nice little car – "

"Yes, go on, what did he do?"

"Do? Do? Oh, nothing. Walked around – "

"Hold on, you said he was in a car."

"No, walked around, sly – oh, so sly – "

"Rubbish! you're making up!"

"Of course he is," said Iris, "he can't tell a connected story. Who was the man, Sam?"

"Don't know name. But – he was at the show to-day."

"At the inquest! No!" Bannard exclaimed.

"Yes, he was. Same man. Oh, I know him, he killed Missy Pell."

"How did he get in the house," Bannard tried to draw him on to further absurd assertions.

"Dunno," and Sam shook his uncertain head. "But he did, and he kill – and kill – and so, he come to show."

"Fool talk!" and Bannard scowled at the defective lad.

"No, sir! Sam no fool."

"Yes, you are, and you know it," Iris declared, but she smiled at him, for she had known the unfortunate boy a long time, and always treated him kindly, but not as a rational human being.

And just then, Browne, the local jeweler, appeared.

He had been sent for by Hughes, in order that they might get some idea of the whereabouts of Mrs. Pell's jewel collection. No one really thought they had all been stored in the small wall safe, and Browne was asked concerning his knowledge.

Several of those most interested clustered round to hear the word and perhaps none was more eager than Mr. Bowen. Quite evidently he had strong hopes of receiving the chalice for his church, and he listened to the jeweler's story.

But it was of little value. Mr. Browne declared his knowledge of many of Mrs. Pell's jewels, which she had shown him, asking his opinion or merely to gratify his interest, and again, when she had wanted to sell some of the smaller ones. But he was sure that she possessed many and valuable stones that he had never seen. He named some diamonds and emeralds that were of sufficient size and weight to be designated by name. He told of some collections that she had bought with his knowledge and advice. And he assured them that he was positive she was the owner of at least two million dollars' worth of unset gems, part of which formed the collection left to her by her husband and part of which she had acquired later, herself.

But Mr. Browne hadn't the slightest idea where these gems were stored for safe keeping. He had sometimes discreetly hinted to Mrs. Pell that he would like to know where they were, merely as a matter of interest, but she had never told him, and had only stated that they were safe from fire, flood or thieves!

"Those were her very words," he asserted, "and when I said that was an all-round statement, she laughed and said they were buried."

"Buried!" cried Iris, "what an idea!"

"A very good idea," Mr. Browne defended. "I'm not sure that isn't the best way to conceal such a stock of valuables."

"But buried where?" pursued the girl.

"That I don't know," said the jeweler.

CHAPTER VI

LUCILLE

"I am Miss Lucille Darrel."

People are usually cognizant of their own names, but few could throw more convincing certainty into the announcement than the speaker. One felt sure at once that her name was as she stated and had been so for a long time. The first adjective one would think of applying to Miss Darrel would be "positive." She was that by every implication of her being. Her hair was positively white, her eyes positively black. Her manner and expression were positive, and her very walk, as she stepped into the Pellbrook living room, was positive and unhesitating.

Iris chanced to be there alone, for the moment; alone, that is, save for the casket containing the body of Ursula Pell. The great room, set in order for the funeral, was filled with rows of folding chairs, and the oppressive odor of massed flowers permeated the place.

The girl stood beside the casket, tears rolling down her cheeks and her whole body shaking with suppressed sobs.

"Why, you poor child," said the newcomer, in most heartfelt sympathy; "Are you Iris?"

The acquiescent reply was lost, as Miss Darrel gathered the slim young figure into her embrace. "There, there," she soothed, "cry all you want to. Poor little girl." She gently smoothed Iris' hair, and together they stood, looking down at the quiet, white face.

"You loved her so," and Miss Darrel's tone was soft and kind.

"I did," Iris said, feeling at once that she had found a friend. "Oh, Miss Darrel, how kind you are! People think I didn't love Aunt Ursula, because – because we were both high-tempered, and we did quarrel. But, underneath, we were truly fond of each other, and if I seem cold and uncaring, it isn't the truth; it's because – because – "

"Never mind, dear, you may have many reasons to conceal your feelings. I know you loved her, I know you revere her memory, for I saw you as I entered, when you thought you were all alone – "

"I am alone, Miss Darrel – I am very lonely. I'm glad you have come, I've been wanting to see you. It's all so terrible – so mysterious; and – and they suspect me!"

Iris' dark eyes stared with fear into the kind ones that met hers, and again she began to tremble.

"Now, now, my child, don't talk like that. I'm here, and I'll look after you. Suspect you, indeed! What nonsense. But it's most inexplicable, isn't it? I know so little, only what I've read in the papers. I came from Albany last night; I started as soon as I possibly could, and traveled as fast as I could. I want to hear all about it, but not from you. You're worn out, you poor dear. You ought to be in bed this minute."

"Oh, no, Miss Darrel, I'm all right. Only – I've a lot on my mind, you see, and – and – " again Iris, with a glance of distress at the cold, dead face, burst into tumultuous weeping.

"Come out of this room," said Miss Darrel, positively. "It only shakes your nerves to stay here. Come, show me to my room. Where shall I lodge? This house is mine, now, or soon will be. You knew that, didn't you?"

"Yes," said Iris, listlessly. "I knew Aunt Ursula meant to leave it to you, but I don't know whether she did or not. And I don't care. I only care for one thing – "

But Miss Darrel was not listening. She was observing and admiring the house itself – the colonial staircase, the well-proportioned rooms and halls, and the attractive furnishings.

"I'll give you the rose guest room," Iris said, leading her toward it, as they reached the upper hall. "Winston Bannard is here, but no other visitors. If there are other heirs, I suppose Mr. Chapin has notified them."