The Diamond Pin. Wells Carolyn
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soon see!" and Campbell searched the entire room. It was not difficult, for there were no alcoves or cupboards, the furniture was mostly curio cabinets, treasure tables, a few chairs and a couch. Campbell looked under the couch, and behind the window curtains, but no intruder was found.
"Mighty curious," said old Purdy, scratching his head; "how in blazes could she scream murder and thieves, when there wasn't no one in here? And how could anyone be in here with her, and get out, leavin' that 'ere door locked behind him?"
"She was murdered all right!" declared Campbell, "look at them bruises on her neck! See, her dress is tore open at the throat! What kind o' villain could 'a' done that? Gosh, it's fierce!"
Iris came timidly forward to look at the awful sight. Unable to bear it, she turned and sank on the couch, completely unnerved.
"Get a doctor, shall I?" asked Campbell, who was the most composed of them all.
"What for?" asked Purdy. "She's dead as a door nail, poor soul! But yes, I s'pose it's the proper thing. An' we oughta get the crowner, an' not touch nothin' till he comes."
"The coroner!" Iris' eyes stared at him. "What for?"
"Well, you see, Miss Iris, it's custom'ry when they's a murder – "
"But she couldn't have been murdered! Impossible! Who could have done it? It's – it's an accident."
"I wish I could think so, Miss Iris," and Purdy's honest old face was very grave, "but you look around. See, there's been robbery, – look at that there empty pocket-book an' empty bag! An' the way she's been – hit! Why, see them marks on her chest! She's fair black an' blue! And her skirt's tore – "
"Good Lord!" cried Polly, "her pocket's tore out! She always had a big pocket inside each dress skirt, and this one's been – why it's been cut out!"
There could be no doubt that the old lady had been fearfully attacked. Nor could there be any doubt of robbery. The ransacked desk, the open safe, the cut-out pocket, added to the state of the body itself, left no room for theories of accident or self-destruction.
"Holler for the doctor," commanded Purdy, instinctively taking the helm. "You telephone him, Campbell, and then he'll see about the coroner – or whoever he wants. And I think we'd oughter call up Mr. Bowen, what say, Miss Iris?"
"Mr. Bowen – why?"
"Oh, I dunno; it seems sorter decent, that's all."
"Very well, do so."
"I – I suppose I ought to telephone to Mr. Bannard – "
"Sure you ought to. But let's get the people up here first, then you can get long distance to New York afterward."
Once over the first shock of horror, Purdy's sense of responsibility asserted itself, and he was thoughtful and efficient.
"All of you go outa this room," he directed, "I'll take charge of it till the police get here. This is a mighty strange case, an' I can't see any light as to how it could 'a' happened. But it did happen – poor Mis' Pell is done for, an' I'll stand guard over her body till somebody with more authority gets here. You, Agnes, be ready to wait on the door, and Polly, you look after Miss Iris. Campbell, you telephone like I told you – "
Submissively they all obeyed him. Iris, with an effort, rose from the couch and went out to the living room. There, she sat in a big chair, and stared at nothing, until Polly, watching, became alarmed.
"Be ca'm, now, Miss Iris, do be ca'm," she urged, stupidly.
"Hush up, Polly, I am calm. Don't say such foolish things. You know I'm not the sort to faint or fly into hysterics."
"I know you ain't, Miss Iris, but you're so still and queer like – "
"Who wouldn't be? Polly, explain it. What happened to Aunt Ursula – do you think?"
"Miss Iris, they ain't no explanation. I'm a quick thinker, I am, and I tell you, there ain't no way that murderer – for there sure was a murderer – could 'a' got in that room or got out, with that door locked."
"Then she killed herself?"
"No, she couldn't possibly 'a' done that. You know yourself, she couldn't. When she screamed 'Thieves!' the thieves was there. Now, how did they get away? They ain't no secret way in an' out, that I know. I've lived in this house too many years to be fooled about its buildin'. It's a mystery, that's what it is, a mystery."
"Will it ever be solved?" and Iris looked at old Polly as if inquiring of a sibyl.
"Land, child, how do I know? I ain't no seer. I s'pose some of those smart detectives can make it out, but it's beyond me!"
"Oh, Polly, they won't have detectives, will they?"
"Sure they will, Miss Iris; they'll have to."
"Now, I'm through with the telephone," said Campbell, reappearing. "Shall I get New York for you, Miss?"
"No," said Iris, rising, "I'll get the call myself."
CHAPTER III
THE EVIDENCE OF THE CHECKBOOK
Winston Bannard's apartments in New York were comfortable though not luxurious. The Caxton Annex catered to young bachelors who were not millionaires but who liked to live pleasantly, and Bannard had been contentedly ensconced there ever since he had left his aunt's home.
He had always been glad he had made the move, for the city life was far more to his liking than the village ways of Berrien, and if his law practice could not be called enormous, it was growing and he had developed some real ability.
Of late he had fallen in with a crowd of men much richer than himself, and association with them had led to extravagance in the matter of cards for high stakes, motors of high cost, and high living generally.
The high cost of living is undeniable, and Bannard not infrequently found himself in financial difficulties of more or less depth and importance.
As he entered his rooms Sunday evening about seven, he found a telegram and a telephone notice from the hotel office. The latter merely informed him that Berrien, Connecticut, had called him at four o'clock. The telegram read:
"For Heaven's sake come up here at once. Aunt Ursula is dead."
It was signed Iris, and Bannard read it, standing by the window to catch the gleams of fading daylight. Then he sank into a chair, and read it over again, though he now knew it by rote.
He was not at all stunned. His alert mind traveled quickly from one thought to another, and for ten minutes his tense, strained position, his set jaw and his occasionally winking eyes betokened successive cogitations on matters of vital importance.
Then he jumped up, looked at his watch, consulted a time-table, and, not waiting for an elevator, ran down the stairs through that atmosphere of Sunday afternoon quiet, which is perhaps nowhere more noticeable than in a city hotel.
A taxicab, a barely caught train, and before nine o'clock Winston Bannard was at the Berrien railroad station.
Campbell was there to meet him, and as they drove to the house Bannard sat beside the chauffeur that he might learn details of the tragedy.
"But I don't understand, Campbell," Bannard said, "how could she be murdered, alone in her room, with the door locked? Did she – didn't she – kill herself?"
But the chauffeur was close-mouthed. "I don't know, Mr. Bannard," he returned, "it's all mighty queer, and the detective told me not to gossip or chatter about it at all."
"But, my stars! man, it isn't gossip to tell me all there is to tell."
"But there's nothing to tell. The bare facts you know – I've told you those; as to the rest, the police or Miss Iris must tell you."
"You're right," agreed Bannard. "I'm glad you are not inclined to guess or surmise. There must be some explanation, of course. How about the windows?"
"Well, you know those windows, Mr. Bannard. They're as securely barred as the ones in the bank, and more so. Ever since Mrs. Pell took that room for her treasure room, about eight or ten years ago, they've