The Diamond Pin

"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 all 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 ever encountered, but I shall do my best. And I want the coöperation 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 Darrel, will you extend your hospitality to my young assistant?"

"That boy?" Lucille smiled.

"Yes; Terence, his name is. He's my right-hand man and attends to a lot of detail work for me."

"He's a handful," and Lucille laughed again. "I saw him in the kitchen, wheedling round Polly, and begging for cookies."

"I'll warrant he got 'em," 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, Terence 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 round.

"We'll be friends, Terence," said Iris, who felt sorry for his embarrassment, and who pleasantly offered her hand.

"Thank you, ma'am, and will you please call me Fibsy, it makes me feel more at home – like."

"Fibsy! What a funny name! Because you tell fibs?"

"Yes'm! How'd you guess?" The laughing eyes met hers and the boy's stubby paw touched Iris' 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.

"Lemme see the room?" whispered Fibsy, 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. Pell were quickly rehearsed, and Fibsy'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 watched absorbedly 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 yank the heart out o' the mystery, you can just bet. Of course, 'How'd the murderer get out?' is easy enough to sit around an' say – like a flock of parrots! The thing to do is to find out how he did get out!"

Fibsy stood, hands in pockets, in front of the mantel, looking down at the floor.

"Here's where she was lyin'?" he asked gravely, and Iris nodded her head.

Leaning down, Fibsy looked up the chimney, and Hughes laughed out.

"Back number!" he said, looking bored, "Don't you s'pose we've investigated that chimney business? A monkey couldn't get up that little flue, let alone an able-bodied man!"

"That's so, my bucko!" and Fibsy 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, 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 'a' been opened an' folded up again," offered Fibsy. "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 Fibsy. "Where's this Mr. Bannard live?"

"In bachelor apartments in New York," said Iris.

"I mean, where in New York?" the boy persisted

"West Forty-fourth Street."

"He ain't the murderer," and Fibsy handed the newspaper, that he had been glancing over, back to Hughes.

"You darling!" cried Iris, excitedly, grasping Fibsy's two hands. "Of course he isn't. But how do you know?"

"Don't go too fast, Fibs," 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! O 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?"