The Diamond Pin

"Do you want to keep it?"

"Not if you want it, Miss Iris. If not, I'd like to have it. I suppose it's superstitious, but it seems lucky to me."

"Go and get it, Agnes, and let me see it."

But the maid returned without the pin.

"I can't find it, Miss Iris. I put it on the under side of my own pincushion, and there's none there now. I asked Polly and she said she didn't touch it. Where could it have gone?"

"You used it unthinkingly. It doesn't matter, there's no such thing as a lucky pin, Agnes. You can just as well take any other pin out of Aunt Ursula's cushion – take one, if you like – and call that your 'Luck.' Don't be a silly!"

Iris smiled to think that neither of the pins her strange visitor carried off with him was the right one, after all. "But," she thought, "it makes no difference, anyway, as he thinks he has it. He's sure it's one of the two he has; if there were three uncertain ones it would be too complicated. Let the poor man rest satisfied. I wonder if he found the dime."

But looking from the window she could see no sign of her late caller, and she dismissed the subject from her mind at once.

Yet she had not heard the last of it.

In the evening mail a letter came for her. It was in an unfamiliar handwriting, and was written on a single plain sheet of paper.

The note ran:

Miss Clyde,

Dear Madam:

I will pay you one hundred dollars for the pin left to you by your aunt. Please make every effort to find it, and lay it on the South gatepost to-night at ten o'clock. Don't let anybody see you. You will receive the money to-morrow by registered mail. No harm is meant, but I want to get ahead of that other man who is making a collection. Put it in a box, and be sly about it. I'll get it all right. You don't know me, but I would scorn to write an anonymous letter, and I willingly sign my name,

    William Ashton.

That evening Iris told Lucille all about it.

"What awful rubbish," commented that lady. "But I know people who make just such foolish collections. One friend of mine collects buttons from her friends' dresses. Why, I'm afraid to go there, with a gown trimmed with fancy buttons; she rips one off when you're not looking! It's really a mania with her. Now two men are after your pin. Have you got it? I'd sell it for a hundred dollars, if I were you. And that man will pay. Those collectors are generally honest."

"No; I haven't it." And Iris proceeded to tell of Agnes' connection with the matter.

"H'm, a Luck! I've heard of them, too. Sometimes they're worth keeping. Oh, no, I'm not really superstitious, but an old Luck is greatly to be reverenced, if nothing more. If that pin was Ursula's Luck, you ought to keep it, my dear."

"But I haven't it. If it is a Luck, and if its possession would help me – would help to free Win – I'd like to see the collector that could get it away from me!"

"Oh, it mightn't be so potent as all that, but after all, a Luck is a Luck, and I'd be careful how I let one get away."

"But it has got away. And, too, I let friend Pollock go off with the idea that he had it; now, if I were to let somebody else take it, Mr. Pollock would have good reason to chide me."

"But how did this other man know about it?"

"I've no idea, unless he and Pollock are friends and compare notes."

"But how did – what's his name? – Ashton, know it was lost?"

"That's so, how did he? It's very mysterious. What shall I do?"

"Nothing at all. You can't put it on the gatepost, if you don't know where it is. But I'd certainly try to find it. Ask Polly what she knows about it."

"I will, to-morrow. She's gone to bed by now. Poor old thing, she works pretty hard."

"I know it. I'll be glad when I get a whole staff of new servants. But I'll wait till this excitement is over."

That was Miss Darrel's attitude. She had received her inheritance and selfishly took little interest in that of the other heirs.

CHAPTER IX

IRIS IN DANGER

Wearily, Iris went upstairs to her own room, and closed the door. Then she opened it again, for the night was hot and stifling. Without turning on a light, she went and sat by an open window, leaning her arms on the sill, and staring, with unseeing gaze, out into the night.

She was thinking about Bannard, and her thoughts were in a chaos. Not for a moment did she believe him guilty of his aunt's death, but she could not help a conviction that he had been at Pellbrook that Sunday afternoon. She wasted no time on the inexplicable mystery of the locked room, for, she reasoned, whoever did kill Mrs. Pell escaped afterward, so that point had no bearing on Winston's connection with the crime. Moreover, she knew, as she feared the police also knew, that Bannard was deeply in debt, and as he had received the substantial check from his aunt, and had banked the same, it was all, in a way, circumstantial evidence that was strongly indicative.

Roger Downing had seen Win around Pellbrook about noon, or he thought he had, of that she was sure, and Roger's declaration that he would deny this was of little value, for Hughes would get it out of him, she knew.

Arrest wasn't conviction, to be sure, but – Iris resolutely put away her own growing suspicions of Bannard. She would stand by him, even in the face of evidence or testimony – she would – and then she began to speculate as to the fortune. Those gems were hidden somewhere – and without Winston to help her how was she to look for them? Knowing Ursula Pell's tricksy spirit, the jewels might be in the most absurd and unexpected place. Crypt? Where was any crypt? She inclined a little to the idea of its being in some church, not in Berrien; for with all Mrs. Pell's foolishness, Iris didn't think she would hide the treasure in any but a safe place. And too, the crypt might well be merely the vaults of some safe deposit company – in Chicago, perhaps, or New York. It was maddening! Iris thought over the events since the day of her aunt's death. The awful tragedy itself, the mystery of the unknown assailant and his manner of escape, the fearful scenes of the inquest, the funeral, and the police searchings since, and, finally, the arrest of Bannard. It seemed to Iris she couldn't stand anything more; and yet, she realized, it had but begun. The mystery was as deep as ever, the jewels were missing, perhaps would never be found, and Winston's case looked very dark against him.

"I must find the jewels," Iris mused, as she had done a hundred times before. "And I must do it by my wits. They are somewhere in safety – of that I'm sure, and, too, Aunt Ursula has left some hint, some clue to their hiding-place. If I'm to be of any help to Win, the first thing to do is to ferret out this matter. Then, we may be better able to trace the – "

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sight of what seemed to her to be a shadow, crossing the lawn below her. The shrubbery was dense, and the night dark, but she discerned a faint semblance of a person skulking among the trees. She sat motionless, but the shadow faded, and she could see nothing more of it. Concluding she had been mistaken, she sighed and was about to draw the blinds and make a light, when she was seized with a sudden spirit of nervous energy that impelled her to do something – anything, rather than go to bed, where she knew she would only toss sleeplessly on the pillow.

Silently, not to disturb Miss Darrel, she crossed the hall and went downstairs. With only a vague notion of looking around, she went into her aunt's sitting room, and flashed on a light. It was the table lamp that had been found broken on the floor at the time of the tragedy, but that now, replaced by a new electrolier, gave a pleasant, soft light. Coiling up the long green cord, lest she trip on it, Iris sank into an easy chair near the table.

Restlessly, she arose and walked about the room. Though familiar with every detail, it looked strange to her, as a room does when one is the sole occupant. She opened the wall-safe, and stared into its emptiness. She pulled open some drawers of a cabinet, looked into a few boxes, and with no definite purpose, sat down at her aunt's desk. Disinterestedly, she looked over some books and papers, but she knew them all by heart. She ran over some bundles of letters, hoping to find a penciled memorandum on the backs, that had been hitherto unnoticed.

Nothing met her eye that seemed important, and she turned from the desk, her glance falling on the cretonne window curtains that overhung the lighter lace ones.

"Come out!" she cried, and then quickly, "no, don't come out! Stay where you are! Who are you?"

The curtain moved very slightly, and Iris rose, and stood, holding the back of her chair. Her heart was beating wildly, for though possessed of average courage, to be alone at midnight in a room of sinister memories, and see the folds of a curtain sway ever so little is, to say the least, disturbing.

"Who are you, I say!" she repeated angrily, but there was no response, and the curtain hung still.

A terror passed through her, and left her shivering, with an icy grip at her heart. Though not at all inclined toward a belief in the supernatural, there was an uncanny feeling in the atmosphere and Iris trembled with a strange, weird feeling, as of impending disaster. She edged a step backward, but as she did so the curtain was flung aside, and a man stood disclosed – a tall figure, with strong, muscular frame, and arms extended in a threatening gesture.

"Not a word!" he whispered, "not a sound!" and the glint of a small revolver flashed toward her. But she was too petrified with fear to speak, for the man was masked, and the effect of the blackavised apparition took her breath away. Only for a moment, however, and then a wave of relief surged over her. For, alarming as a human intruder may be, he is less frightful than a supernatural visitant.

The color came back to her white cheeks, and she said scornfully, "I am not afraid of you – "

"You'd better be, then," and the man moved nearer to her. "I've no wish to harm you, but if you raise an alarm, I shall consider my own safety first!"

"Coward!"

"Nonsense! I don't mean before yours, you've nothing to fear. But if you're inclined to call help, I'll have to make it impossible for you to do so."