Fleming Stone carried his years lightly. Except for the slight graying at his temples, no one would think that he had arrived, as he had, at the years that are called middle-aged.

But an especially interesting problem so stirred his enthusiasm and roused his energies that he grew young again, and his dark eyes fairly scintillated with eagerness and power.

"Tell me everything," he repeated, even after he had heard all the details over and over again. "Omit nothing – no tiniest point. It all helps."

They sat in the living room at Pellbrook, Miss Darrel and Iris being present, also Hughes and Lawyer Chapin.

Stone had examined the sitting room where Mrs. Pell had died, and, closing its door, had returned to the big living room, for further information on the whole subject of the crime and its subsequent events.

"The pin's the thing," he said, at last. "Everything hinges on that."

"Do you think so?" asked Mr. Chapin. "It seems to me the pin's a blind – a decoy – and the people hunting it are really after something else, of intrinsic value."

Fleming Stone looked at the lawyer, with a courteous impatience.

"No, Mr. Chapin, the pin is the thing they are after. It was for that pin that Mrs. Pell was murdered. That is why her dress was torn open at the throat, the villain was searching for that pin. That's why the desk was ransacked, the handbag explored, the pocket-book emptied – all in a desperate effort to find that seemingly insignificant pin! That is why the poor woman was tortured, maltreated, bruised and beaten, in final attempts to make her tell where the pin was. Failing, the wretch flung her to the floor, in a burst of murderous frenzy."

"That's why I was kidnapped, then," exclaimed Iris.

"Of course, and you may be again! Those people will stop at nothing! The letters asking for the pin, the caller who wanted it for his 'collection,' all represent the same master-mind, who is after the pin.

"But why?" wondered Hughes, "what do they want of the pin?"

"The pin means the jewels," declared Stone, briefly. "How, I can't say, exactly, for the moment, but the pin is the open sesame to the hiding-place of the gems, and only the possession of it will secure the treasure. We must get the pin – and then, all else will be clear sailing."

"But the pin is gone," lamented Iris.

"That is the worst phase of it all," Stone said, regretfully. "It is such a difficult thing to trace – not only so tiny, and easily lost, but so like thousands of others, that it can't readily be discerned even if seen."

"You think it's just an ordinary pin, then?" inquired Chapin.

"Absolutely, sir."

"Then why won't any other pin do as well?"

Stone looked at him keenly. "I can't answer that at present, Mr. Chapin; my theory regarding the pin, while doubtless the truth, is as yet uncertain. Now, another and equally great problem is that of the murderer's exit. From your story of the crime, I gather that the room was absolutely unenterable, except by breaking in the door, which Purdy and the chauffeur did?"

"That is true," agreed Iris; "the windows, as you can see, are strongly barred, and there is but the one door. Search has been made for secret entrances or concealed passages, but there is nothing of the sort."

"No," said Stone, "this sort of a house is not apt to have such. If there were any, they would be easily discovered. And there were several people in this room, when the two men burst in the door?"

"Yes," said Iris. "I was here, and Polly, the cook, and the two men – "

"You are positive the murderer could not have slipped by you all, as the door flew open, and so made his escape?"

"That was utterly impossible. We were all grouped around the door and stayed so, until we entered the sitting room ourselves. There was nobody there but Aunt Ursula, herself – "

"Dead?"

"Yes, but only just dead. Polly heard her faint moans, after her loud screams, you know, before we broke in."

"And what were the words she used when she screamed out?"

"I don't know exactly, but they were cries for help, and I'm sure Polly said she called out 'Thieves!' Of course, she was unable to speak coherently."

"Now," began Stone, "to look at this one point. Her assailant had to get out or stay in, didn't he? You're sure he didn't get out, therefore he must have stayed in. A man of flesh and blood cannot go through walls, like a ghost."

"But he didn't stay in!" cried Iris. "We searched the room at once, there was nobody in it. You know there's almost no place to hide. We looked behind the window curtains, and all such places – and, too, we were in this room continuously, till others came, and no one could have gone through here without being seen."

"Nor could he get out of the barred windows. Then what became of him?"

"Ah, Mr. Stone," said Hughes, "that's the question that has puzzled us all. If you can solve that, we can begin to look for the murderer!"

"Meantime, we must assume him to be a spook? Is that it?" Stone smiled a little at the complacent Hughes.

"I don't say that, but I do call the manner of his exit an insoluble mystery."

"If

could accomplish it,

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?"

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?"

"Yes, yes, in Missy Pell's room."

But Fibsy began to think the clouded intellect was merely repeating words spoken to it, and he asked, "Who put pin in chair for Sam to steal?"

"Who?" and the blank, foolish face was inquiring.

"Campbell?"

"No, no! not Campbell!"

"No, no, it was Agnes."

"No! not Agnes – "

"Who, then?" Fibsy held his breath, lest he disturb the evident effort the poor lad was making to remember.

"Missy Iris," Sam said at last, "yes, Missy Iris, Missy Iris – yes, Missy – "

"There, there," Fibsy shut him up, "don't say that again. Did you see her?"

"Yes, by window. Then, Sam steal pin. It is a sin to steal a pin. It is a sin to steal a pin – it is – "

But Fibsy set to work to turn the poor befuddled mind in another direction, and after a time he succeeded.

CHAPTER XIV

FIBSY AND SAM

"There are two things to find," Fleming Stone said, "the murderer and the pin. There are two things to find out, how the murderer got away, and why the pin is valuable."

Stone persisted in his belief that the pin was of value, and that in some way it would lead to the discovery of the jewels. He had read all of Ursula Pell's diary, and though it gave no definite assurance, there were hints in it that strengthened his theory. Before he had been in the Pell house twenty-four hours, he had learned all he could from the examination of the whole premises and the inspection of all the papers and books in Mrs. Pell's desk. He declared that the murderer was after the pin, and that, failing to find it, he had maltreated Ursula Pell in a fit of rage at his failure.

"She was of an irritating nature, you tell me," Stone said, "and it may well be that she not only refused to give up the pin, but teased and tantalized the intruder who sought it."

"But what use

could

the pin be as a clue to the jewels?" Lucille Darrel asked. "I can't imagine any theory that would explain that."

"I can imagine a theory," Stone responded, "but it is merely a theory – a surmise, rather; and it is so doubtful, at best, I'd rather not divulge it at present. But the pin must be found."

"I haven't found it, but I've a notion of which way to look," said Fibsy, who had just entered the room.

It was Mrs. Pell's sitting room, and Fleming Stone was still fingering some packets of papers in the desk.

"Out with it, Fibs, for I'm going over to see Mr. Bannard now, and I want all your information before I go."

So Fibsy told of what Sam had said, and of the snatch of song he had sung.

"Good enough as far as it goes," commented Stone, "but your source of knowledge seems a bit uncertain."

"That's just it," said Fibsy. "That's why I didn't tell you this last night. I thought I'd tackle friend Boobikins this morning and see if I could get more of the real goods. But, nixie. Sam says he has the pin, but he doesn't know where it is."

"I'm afraid you're trying to draw water from an empty well, son; better try some other green fields and pastures new."

"I know it, Mr. Stone, but s'pose you just speak to the innocent before you go away. You can tell if he knows anything."

"Why should Sam steal the pin?" Iris asked, her eyes big with amazement.

"You can't tell

what

such people will do," Fibsy returned. "He may have seen you hiding it, as he says he did, and he may have come in and stolen it, just because of a mere whimsey in his brain. Is he around here much?"

"Quite a good deal, of late. He's fond of Agnes, and he trails her about, like a dog after its master. Aunt Ursula wouldn't have him around much when she was here, but Miss Darrel doesn't mind."

"I don't like him," said Lucille, "but I am sorry for him, and he does adore Agnes. I think he ought to be put in an institution."

"Oh, no," said Iris, "he isn't bad enough for that. He's not really insane, just feeble-minded. He's perfectly harmless."

"Bring him in here," suggested Stone.

Fibsy ran out, and came back with the half-witted boy.

"Hello, Sam," said Stone, in an off-handed, kindly way, "you're the boy for us. Now, where did you say you found that pin?"

"Here," and Sam pushed his hand down in the big chair, in the very spot where Iris had concealed it.

"Good boy! How'd you get in this room?"

"Through window in other room – walked in here!" He spoke with pride in his achievement. But at Stone's next question, a look of deep cunning came into his eyes, and he shook his head. For the detective said, "Where is the pin now, Sam?"

The lack-luster eyes gleamed with an uncanny wisdom, and the stupid face showed a stubborn denial, as he said, "I donno, I donno, I donno."

And then he broke forth again into the droning song:

"It is a sin to steal a pin,

As well as any greater thing!"

This couplet he repeated, in his peculiarly insistent way, until they were all nearly frantic.

"Stop that!" ordered Lucille. "Put him out of the room, somebody. Hush up, Sam!"

"Wait a minute," said Stone, "listen, Sam, what will you take to show me where the pin is?"

"Dollars, dollars – a lot of dollars!"

"Two?" and Stone drew out his wallet.

"Yes, 'two, three, four – lot of dollars!"

"And then you'll tell us where the pin is?"

"Yes, Sam tell then – it is a sin – "

"Don't sing that again. Look, here's four nice dollar bills; now where's the pin?"

"Where?" Sam looked utterly blank. "Where's the pin? Nice pin, oh, pinny, pin, pin! Where's the pin? Oh,

know!"

"All right, where?"

"Forgot! All forgot. Nice pin forgot – forgot – forgot – "

"Oh, pshaw!" exclaimed Lucille, "he doesn't know anything! I don't believe he really took the pin at all. He heard Agnes and Polly talking about it and he thinks he did."

"Oh, yes, Sam took pin!" declared the idiot boy, himself. "Yes, Sam took pin – pinny-pin – beautiful day, beautiful day, beautiful – beautiful day!"

The boy stood babbling. He was not ill-looking, and the pathos of it all made him far from ridiculous. A tall, well-formed lad, his face would have been really attractive, had the light of intelligence blessed it.

But his blue eyes were vacant, his lips were not firm, and his head turned unsteadily from side to side. Yet, now and again, a gleam of cunning showed in his expression, and Fibsy, watching such moments, tried to make him speak rationally.

"Think it up, Sam," he said, kindly. "There! You remember now! So you do! Where did you put the nice pin?"

"In the crack of the floor! In the crack of the floor! In the – "

"Yes, of course you did!" encouraged Stone. "That was a good place. Now, what floor was it? This room?"

"No, oh, nony no! Not this floor, no, no, no – 'nother floor."

But all further effort to learn what floor was unsuccessful. Indeed, they didn't really think the boy had hidden the pin in a floor crack, or at least they could not feel sure of it.

"He never had the pin at all," Lucille asserted, "he heard the others talking about it, probably they said it might be in a crack, and he remembered the idea."

"Keep him on the place," Stone told them, as he prepared to go to see Bannard. "Don't let Sam get away, whatever you do."

The call on Winston Bannard was preceded by a short visit to Detective Hughes.

While the lesser detective was not annoyed or offended at Stone's taking up the case, yet it was part of his professional pride to be able to tell his more distinguished colleague any new points he could get hold of. And, to-day, Hughes had received back from a local handwriting expert the letter that had been sent to Iris.

"And he says," Hughes told the tale, "he says, Barlow does, that that letter is in Win Bannard's writing, but disguised!"

"What!" and Stone eyed the document incredulously.

"Yep, Barlow says so, and he's an expert, he is. See, those twirly y's and those extra long-looped g's are just like these here in a lot of letters of Bannard's."

"Are these in Bannard's writing?"

"Yes, those are all his. You can see from their contents. Now, this here note signed William Ashton has the same peculiarities."

"Yes, I see that. Do you believe Bannard wrote this letter to his cousin?"

"She ain't exactly his cousin, only a half way sort of one."

"I know; never mind that now. Do you think Bannard wrote the note?"

"Yes, I do. I believe Win Bannard is after that pin, so's he can find them jewels – "

"Oh, then you think the pin is a guide to the jewels?"

"Well, it must be, as you say so. 'Tenny rate, the murderer wanted something, awful bad. It never seemed like he was after just money, or he'd 'a' come at night, don't you think so?"

"Perhaps."

"Well, say it was Win, there's nothing to offset that theory. And everything to point toward it. Moreover, there's no other suspect."

"William Ashton? Rodney Pollock?"

"All the same man," opined Hughes, "and all – Winston Bannard!"

"Oh, I don't know – "

"How you going to get around that letter? Can't you see yourself it's Bannard's writing disguised? And not very much disguised, at that. Why, look at the capital W! The one in William and this one in his own signature are almost identical."

"Why didn't he try to disguise them?"

"He did disguise the whole letter, but he forgot now and then. They always do. It's mighty hard, Barlow says, to keep up the disguise all through. They're sure to slip up, and return to their natural formation of the letters here and there."

"I suppose that's so. Shall I confront Bannard with this?"

"If you like. You're in charge. At least, I'm in with you. I don't want to run counter to your ideas in any way."

"Thank you, Mr. Hughes. I appreciate the justice and courtesy of your attitude toward me, and I thank you for it."

"But it don't extend to that boy – that cub of yours!"

"Terence?" Fleming Stone laughed. "All right, I'll tell him to keep out of your way. He'll not bother you, Mr. Hughes."

"Thank you, sir. Shall I go over to the jail with you?"

"No, I'd rather go alone. But as to this theory of yours. You blame Bannard for all the details of this thing? Do you think he kidnapped Miss Clyde last Sunday?"

"I think it was his doing. Of course, the two people who carried her off were merely tools of the master mind. Bannard could have directed them as well as anybody else."

"He could, surely. Now, here's another thing – I want to trace the house where Miss Clyde was taken. Seems to me that would help a lot."

"Lord, man! How can you find that?"

"Do you know any nearby town where there's an insurance agent named Clement Foster?"

"Sure I do; he lives over in Meadville."

"Then Meadville is very likely the place where that house is."

"How do you know?"

"I don't

know

. But I asked Miss Clyde to think of anything in the room she was in that might be indicative, and she told of a calendar with that agent's name on it. It's only a chance, but it is likely that the calendar was in the same town that the agent lives and works in."

"Of course it is! Very likely! You

are

a smart chap, ain't you!"

Mr. Hughes' admiration was so full and frank that Stone smiled.

"That isn't a very difficult deduction," he said, "but we must verify it. This afternoon, we'll drive over there with Miss Clyde, and see if we can track down the house we're after."

Fleming Stone went alone to his interview with Winston Barnard. He found the young man willing to talk, but hopelessly dejected.

"There's no use, Mr. Stone," he said, after some roundabout conversation, "I'll be railroaded through. I didn't kill my aunt, but the circumstantial evidence is so desperately strong against me that nobody will believe me innocent. They can't prove it, because they can't find out how I got in, or rather out, but as there's nobody else to suspect, they'll stick to me."

"How

did

you get out?"

"Not being in, I didn't get out at all."

"I mean when you were there in the morning!"

Winston Bannard turned white and bestowed on his interlocutor a glance of utter despair.

"For Heaven's sake!" he exclaimed, "you've been in Berrien less than two days, and you've got that, have you?"

"I have, Mr. Bannard, and before we go further, let me say that I am your friend, and that I do not think you are guilty of murder or of theft."

"Thank you, Mr. Stone," and Bannard interrupted him to grasp his hand. "That's the first word of cheer I've had! My lawyer is a half-hearted champion, because he believes in his soul that I did it!"

"Have you told him the whole truth?"

"I have not! I couldn't! Every bit of it would only drag me deeper into the mire of inexplicable mystery."

"Will you tell it all to me?"

"Gladly, if you'll promise to believe me."

"I can't promise that, blindly, but I'll tell you that I think I Shall be able to recognize the truth as you tell it. Did you write the letter signed William Ashton?"

"Lord, no! Why would I do that?"

"To get the pin – "

"Now, hold on, before we go further, Mr. Stone, do satisfy my curiosity. Is that pin, that foolish, common little pin of any value?"

"I think so, Mr. Bannard. I can't tell until I see it – "

"But man, why

see

it? It's just like any common pin! I examined it myself, and it isn't bent or twisted, or different in any way from millions of other pins."

"Quite evidently then, you've not tried to get possession of it. Your scorn of it is sincere, I'm certain."

"You may be! I've no interest in that pin, for I know it was only a fool joke of Aunt Ursula's to tease poor little Iris."

"Her joking habit was most annoying, was it not?"

"All of that, and then some! She was a terror! Why, I simply couldn't keep on living with her. She made my life a burden. And she did the same by Iris. What that girl has suffered! But the last straw was the worst. Why, for years and years Aunt Ursula told of the valuable diamond pin she had bequeathed to Iris; at least, we thought she said diamond pin, but she said dime an' pin, I suppose."

"Yes, I know all about that; it

was

a cruel jest, unless – as I hope – the pin is really of value. But never mind that now. Tell me your story of that fatal Sunday."

"Here goes, then. I was out with the boys the night before, and I lost a lot of money at bridge. I was hard up, and I told one of the fellows I'd come up to Berrien the