The Diamond Pin

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's a blood stain on the brass knob, and her head was right by it. The poker is two feet away."

"Might 'a' been used, all the same," and Fibsy stared at it. "Howsumever, 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," Fibsy returned, quietly, "so far, they ain't nothin' to implicate Mr. Bannard. Somethin' 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, Terence," 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 Fibsy, admiringly. "Puts his finger on the very spot! An' me a babblin' foolishness about findin' how the chappie 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 Fibsy's humble acceptance of Hughes' reproof had no tinge of irony. The boy was not conceited or bumptious, he was Stone's assistant, and took no orders save 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 Fleming Stone, and an approving nod from the great detective was all the reward Terence Maguire desired.

And then, Fibsy 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 endeavoring to make him of gentlemanly behaviour. And I'm succeeding, on the whole, but in emergency the fervor 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 also lenient."

Then, apparently feeling that he had done his duty by Hughes, the detective turned his attention to the room once more.

He scrutinized everything all over again. He left no minutest portion of the mantel, 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, you 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.

Fibsy took his way to the garage, and began a desultory conversation with Campbell, the chauffeur.

"Who's the college perfessor?" he asked, pointing a thumb over his shoulder at a long, lank 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 humor, 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' half-brother, and he's half-witted."

"H'm. Sort of fractional currency! Is he – is he exclusive?"

"Eh?"

"Never mind, thank you. I'll be my own intelligence office. Hey, Sam, want some chewin' gum?"

The lackwit turned to the bright-faced boy who followed him, and favored him with a vacant stare.

"Gum, sonny, gum, you know. Chew-chew! Eh?"

Sam held out his hand, and Fibsy 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 singing 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 wheedlesome 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!" Fibsy applauded. "Where'd you learn that, Samivel?"

"Long ago, baby days."

"And why do you sing it to-day?"

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 Notre Dame.

"You know why?" he whispered.

"Oh, yes, I know why. But we won't tell anybody, will us?"

"No, not anybody."

"Who'd you steal it from?"

"From chair, he, he! From old Mister Chair."

"Yes, of course," and Fibsy's heart beat fast. "The big, fat Mister Chair?"

"Yes, big fat Mister Chair!"

"In Mrs. Pell's room?"