The Diamond Pin

"It was when Aunt Ursula made that will. The murderer took it, and, Mr. Chapin, that lets Win out! Why should he steal a paper that was meant for him anyway?"

"He didn't know then that it was left to him, did he?"

"I don't know that, I'm sure. But I know Win didn't kill Aunt Ursula, and it's awful to keep him shut up!"

"I think myself they hardly had enough evidence to arrest him on, but Hughes thought they did, and the district attorney is hard at work on the case now."

"Yes, hard at work!" Iris spoke scornfully, "what's he doing, I'd like to know."

"These things move slowly, Iris – "

"Well, I'll do a little quick work, then, and show them how. I'm going to Chicago to-morrow, and I'll be gone several days, but I'll be back as soon as possible and there'll be something doing, or I'll know why!"

"Your energy is all right, Iris," said Chapin, "but a bit misdirected – "

"Nothing of the sort," snapped Iris, who considered the lawyer an old fogy; "it's time somebody got busy, and I don't take much stock in the local police."

"But about the pin," pursued Lucille, "I think you ought to find out who stole it just now, Iris. Maybe it was somebody in the house. Where is Purdy?"

"Purdy!" cried Iris, "don't suspect him, Lucille! Why, he is as faithful and honest as I am myself."

"But where was he?"

"I don't know, and I don't care; he wasn't in here stealing the pin."

"Perhaps it's still in the chair," suggested Chapin.

But it wasn't. A careful search showed that, and as inquiries proved that Purdy and his wife were in the kitchen and Agnes had been waiting on Iris at her belated dinner, there was really no reason to suspect the servants. Campbell, the chauffeur, was in the garage, and there were no other servants about on Sunday. The disappearance of the pin was as inexplicable as the murder, and Iris decided to give up the house mysteries, and look in Chicago for new light.

She started the next day, Lucille and Agnes hovering over her in a solicitude of final preparations.

"I'll take only a suitcase," Iris declared, "for I can't be bothered with a trunk."

"I wish you'd let Agnes go with you," urged Lucille, who hated to have the girl go alone.

But Iris didn't want to take a maid along, and, too, Agnes didn't want to go.

"I'll go if you say so," Agnes demurred, "but I'd hate to leave here just now. Sam is on one of his spells, and I ought to look after him."

"Oh, yes," and Iris smiled at her, "that's one word for Sam and two for yourself! I think that good-looking young man who calls on you has more power to keep you in Berrien than poor Sam!"

Agnes blushed, but didn't deny it.

So Iris went to Chicago alone. She went to a woman's hotel, and established herself there. Then she set out in search of the church that Mrs. Pell used to attend.

The rector, Dr. Stephenson, was a kindly, courteous old man, who received her with a pleasant welcome. He well remembered Ursula Pell, and was deeply interested in the mystery of her tragic death. It was many years since she had lived in Chicago, and his definite memories of her were largely concerning the pranks she used to play, for even the minister had not been spared her annoying fooleries.

But he knew nothing of any gift of a jeweled chalice, and said he really had no desire for such a thing.

"It would only be a temptation to thieves," he asserted, "and the price of it could be much better expended in some more useful way."

"Is there a crypt in your church?" asked Iris, abruptly.

"No; nothing of the sort. Or – well, that is, there is a room below the main floor that could be called a crypt, I suppose, but it is never used as a chapel, or for mortuary purposes. Why?"

Iris told him of the entry in her aunt's diary stating that the collection of jewels was in a crypt, and Dr. Stephenson smiled.

"Not in my church," he said, "of that I'm positive. The basement I speak of has no hidden places nor has anybody ever concealed anything there. You may search there if you choose, but it is useless. To my mind, it sounds more like a bank vault. That might be called a crypt, if one chose so to speak of it."

"Perhaps," said Iris, disappointed at this fruitless effort. "I will go to the Industrial Bank and inquire. That is the bank where my aunt kept her money when she lived here."

The people at the bank were also kind and courteous, but not so much at leisure as the rector had been. They gave Iris no encouraging information. They looked up their records, and found that Mrs. Pell had had an account with them some years ago, but that it had been closed out when she left the city. There were no properties of hers, of any sort, in their custody, and no one of their vaults was rented in her name.

They seemed uninterested in Iris' story, and after their assurances the girl went away.

Next she went to the firm of Craig, Marsden & Co., to see if she could trace the receipt that was mentioned in Mrs. Pell's will as being of importance to Winston Bannard.

A Mr. Reed attended to her errand.

"A vague description," he said, smiling, as she told him of the will. "To be sure, our books will show the name, but it will take some time to look it up."

However, he agreed to investigate the records, and Iris was told to return the next day to learn results.

It was a mere chance that the record of the sale, whatever it might be, would be of any definite importance, but Iris was determined to try every possible way of finding out anything concerning the matter.

The firm of Craig, Marsden & Co. was a large jewelry concern, and probably the receipt in question was for some precious stones or their settings.

Iris boarded a street car to return to her hotel. She sat, deeply engrossed in thought over the various difficulties that beset her path, when the man who sat next her drew a handkerchief from his pocket.

Abstractedly, she noticed the handkerchief. It was of silk, and had a few lines of blue as a border. Then, suddenly, she realized that it was the exact counterpart of the one with which the midnight marauder had tied up her mouth the time he came to get the pin.

Furtively she glanced at the man. The burglar had been masked, but the size and general appearance of this man were not unlike him. Then, another surreptitious look revealed his features to her, and to her surprise she recognized her caller named Pollock!

Quickly she turned her own face aside (the man had not noticed her) and wondered what to do. Without a doubt it was Pollock, she was sure of that, and the peculiar handkerchief gave her an idea it was the midnight intruder also – that they were one and the same! She had surmised this before, and she now began to join the threads of the story.

She felt sure that Pollock and the burglar and the kidnapper were all one, and that Pollock was determined to get the pin at any cost; and she couldn't believe it was for the reason he had asserted, merely as a memento of the dramatic tragedy.

It had not been this man who drove the little car that carried her away on Sunday, but the driver, as well as the girl called Flossie, were probably Pollock's tools.

At any rate, she concluded to trace Pollock and find out something about him.

When he left the car, as he did shortly, she rose and followed him. He had not glanced at her, and was apparently absorbed in thought, so she had no difficulty in walking, unnoticed, behind him.

She smiled at herself, as she realized she was really "shadowing," and felt quite like a detective.

Pollock went into a small restaurant, and Iris, through the wide window, saw him take a seat at a table. The deliberation with which he unfolded his napkin, and looked over the menu, made her assume that he would be there some time.

Acting on the impulse of the moment, Iris ran to the nearest telephone she could find, and called up a detective agency.