And so the case went to the coroner's jury. And after some discussion they returned the inevitable verdict of murder by person or persons unknown. Some of them preferred the phrase, "causes unknown." But others pointed out that the physical causes of Mrs. Pell's death were only too evident; the question was: Who was the perpetrator of the ghastly deed?

And so the foreman somewhat importantly announced that the deceased met her death at the hands of persons unknown, and in most mysterious and inexplicable circumstances, but recommended that every possible effort be made to trace any connection that might exist between the tragedy and the heirs to the fortune of the deceased.

A distinct murmur of disapproval sounded through the room, yet there were those who wagged assenting heads.

The inquest had been a haphazard affair in some ways. Berrien was possessed of only a limited police force, and its head, Inspector Clare, was a man whose knowledge of police matters consisted of an education beyond his intelligence. Moreover, the case itself was so weirdly tragic, so out of all reason or belief, that the whole force was at its wits' end. The bluecoats at the doors of Pellbrook were as interested in the village gossip as the villagers themselves. And though entrance was made difficult, most of the influential members of the community were assembled to hear the inquiry into this strange matter.

There were so few material witnesses, those who were questioned knew so little, and, more than all, the mystery of the murder in the locked room was so baffling, that there was, of course, no possibility of other than an open verdict.

"It's all very well," said the inspector, pompously, "to bring in that verdict. Yes, that's all very well. But the murderers must be found. A crime like this must not go unpunished. It's mysterious, of course, but the truth must be ferreted out. We're only at the beginning. There is much to be learned beside the meager evidence we have already collected."

The mass of people had broken up into small groups, all of whom were confabbing with energy. There were several strangers present, for the startling details of the case, as reported in the city papers, had brought a number of curious visitors from the metropolis.

One of these, a quiet-mannered, middle-aged man, edged nearer to where the inspector was talking to Bannard and Iris Clyde. Hughes was listening, also Mr. Bowen and Mr. Chapin.

"It's this way," the inspector was saying, in his unpolished manner of speech, "we've got her alive at three, talking to her niece, and we've got her dying at half-past three, and calling for help. Between these two stated times, the murderer attacked her, manhandled her pretty severely and flung her down to her death, besides ransacking the room, and stealing nobody knows what or how much. Seems to me a remarkable affair like that ought to be easier to get at than a simple everyday robbery."

"It ought to be, I think, too," said the stranger, in a mild, pleasant voice. "May I ask how you're going about it?"

"Who are you, sir?" asked Clare. "You got any right here? A reporter?"

"No, not a reporter. An humble citizen of New York city, not connected with the police force in any way. But I'm interested in this mystery, and I judge you have in mind some definite plan to work on."

Mollified, even flattered at the man's evident faith in him, the inspector replied, "Yes, sir, yes, I may say I have. Perhaps not for immediate disclosure, no, not that, but I have a pretty strong belief that we'll yet round up the villains——"

"You assume more than one person, then?"

"I think so, yes, I may say I think so. But that's of little moment. If we can run down the clues we have, if we can follow their pointing fingers, we shall know the criminal, and learn whether or not he had accomplices in his vile work."

"Quite so," and with a smile and a nod, the stranger drifted away.

Another man came near, then, and frankly introduced himself as Joe Young, from a nearby town, saying he wanted to be allowed to examine the wall-safe said to have been rifled by the murderer.

"My father built that safe," he explained his interest, "and I think it might lead to some further enlightenment."

Detective Hughes accompanied Young to the closed room that had been Mrs. Pell's sanctum, and they entered alone.

"Don't touch things," cautioned Hughes. "I've not really had a chance yet to go over the place with a fine tooth comb. They've taken the poor lady's body away, but otherwise nothing's been touched——"

"Oh, I won't touch anything," agreed Young, "but I couldn't help a sort of a notion that my father might have built more than a safe—he was a skilful carpenter and joiner, and Mrs. Pell was a tricky woman. I mean by that, she was mighty fond of tricking people and she easily could have had a secret cupboard, or even an entrance from somewhere behind that safe."

But no amount of searching could discover the slightest possibility of such a thing. The open safe was an ordinary, built-in-the-wall affair, not large enough to suggest an entrance for a person. Nor was there any secret compartment behind it or anything other than showed on the surface. The door, when closed, had been covered by a picture, which had been taken down and flung on the floor. The safe was absolutely empty, and no one knew what it had contained.

Young was decidedly disappointed. "I had no personal motive in looking this thing up," he said, "I only hoped that my knowledge of my father's clever work might lead to some discovery that would prove helpful to you detectives or to the family. But it's plain to be seen there's no hocus-pocus about this thing. It's as simple a safe as I ever saw. Nothing, in fact, but a concealed cupboard with a combination lock. Wonder who opened it? The murderer?"

"I don't think so," rejoined Hughes. "I think the intruder, whoever he was, compelled the old lady to open it for him."

"You stick to the masculine gender, I see, in your assumptions."

"I do. I don't think for a minute that Miss Clyde is involved."

"But her room is just above this——"

"Oh, that's what you're after! A secret connection between this room and Miss Clyde's by way of the safe!"

"Yes, that's what I had in mind. But there's not the slightest possibility of it, is there?"

"No, not any other secret passage of any sort or kind. Oh, I've investigated fully in that respect. I meant, I haven't searched for tiny clues and little scraps of evidence. Straws, in fact, do show which way the wind blows."

"Well, I don't suppose I can be of any help, but if I can, call on me. I live in East Fallville, only twelve miles away, and I'd like nothing better than to dig into this mystery, if I'm wanted."

"Thank you, Mr. Young, I appreciate your helpful spirit, and I'll call on you if it's available. But I don't mind owning up that we have more people to look into this matter than directions in which to look. As you may imagine, it's a baffling thing to get hold of. I confess I hardly know which way to turn."

As the two men returned to the living room, Hughes overheard some angry words between Bannard and Roger Downing, one of the dwellers in the village.

"But I saw you," Downing was saying.

"You think you did," returned Bannard, "but you're mistaken."

"When?" asked Hughes, suddenly and sharply, of Downing.

"Sunday about noon. Win Bannard was skulking around in the woods just back of this house——"

"Skulking! Take back that word!" cried Bannard.

"Well, you were sauntering around, then, dawdling around, whatever you want it called, but you were there!"

"I was not," declared Bannard.

"And I saw your little motor car waiting for you a bit farther along the road——"

"You did!" and Bannard laughed shortly, "well, as it happens I don't own a motor car!"

"Nonsense, Roger," said Hughes, "Win Bannard wasn't up here Sunday noon—where would he have been concealed until three o'clock——"

"In his aunt's room——"

"Take that back!" shouted Bannard, "do you know what you're saying?"

"Hush up, both of you," cautioned Hughes. "For Heaven's sake don't get up a scene over nothing! But, if you saw a small motor car along the road near here, I want to know about it. What time was this, Downing?"

"'Long about noon, I tell you," was the sulky reply. "It might have been a few minutes before. There was no one in the car; it was drawn up by the side of the road, not more'n two hundred yards from the house."

"And you thought you saw Mr. Bannard. Of course, it was someone else, but it's important to know about this. I can't help thinking whoever committed that murder was hidden in the room for some time beforehand——"

"And how did he get away?" asked Bannard.

"If you ask me that once more, I'll pound you! I don't know how he got away. But he did get away, and we'll find out how, when we find our man. That's my theory of procedure, if you want to know; let the mystery of the locked room wait, and devote all possible effort to finding the murderer. Then the rest will unravel itself."

"Easier said than done," sneered Downing, "if you're going to discard all evidence or statements that anyone makes to you!"

"If you were so sure you saw Mr. Bannard on Sunday morning, why didn't you so state at the inquest?"

"I wasn't asked, and besides 'twas about noon, and old Timken only asked about the afternoon——"

"And besides," broke in Bannard, "you weren't sure you did see me, and you weren't sure you saw anybody, and you made up this whole yarn, anyhow!"

"Nothing of the sort, and you'll find out, Win Bannard, when I tell all I know——"

"Quit it now," ordered Hughes; "if you've anything to tell of real importance, Roger, tell it to me when we're alone. Don't sing out your information all over the place."

"You're going straight ahead with your investigations, then?" Bannard asked of the detective.

"Yes, but we can't do much till after the funeral, and——"

"And what?"

"And after the reading of the will. You know motive is a strong factor in unraveling a murder case. Why, s'pose some of the servants receive large legacies; and you know how queer Mrs. Pell was—she might well leave a fortune to those Purdys."

"Oh, they didn't do it," and Bannard tossed off the idea as absurd.

"You don't know. Leaving out, as I said before, the question of how the villain got in or out, it might easily have been one or more of the servants. And other help is hired beside the regular house crowd. Take it from me, it was somebody in the house, and not an intruder from outside."

"And take it from me, you don't know what you're talking about," said Roger Downing, as he angrily stalked away.

Bannard had said very little to Iris since his coming to Pellbrook, but he now sought her out, and asked her what she thought about the whole matter.

"I don't know what to think," Iris replied to his question, "but I don't know as it matters so much about solving the mystery. Poor Aunt Ursula is dead, she was killed, but I don't see how we can find out who did it. I think, Win, it must have been somebody we don't know about—say, someone connected with her early life—you know, she has had a more or less varied career."

"How do you mean? She lived here very quietly."

"Yes, but before she came here. Before we knew her, even before we were born. And then, her jewels. Nobody ever owned a splendid collection of jewels but what they were beset by robbers and burglars to get the treasure."

"Then you think it an ordinary jewel robbery?"

"Not ordinary! Far from that! But I can't help thinking that was what the thieves were after. Why, you know her jewels are world famous."

"What do you mean by world famous?"

"Well, maybe not that, but well known among jewelers and jewel collectors. So they would, of course, be known to professional jewel thieves."

"That's so. Where are they anyway?"

"The thieves?"

"No; the jewels."

"I haven't the least idea——"

"Haven't you? Honestly!"

"Indeed, I haven't."

"I don't believe you."

"Why, Win Bannard, what do you mean!"

"Oh, I oughtn't to say that, but truly, Iris, I supposed of course you knew where Aunt Ursula kept 'em."

"Well, I don't. I've not the slightest notion of her hiding place."

"Hiding place! Aren't they in a safe deposit, or something of that sort?"

"They may be, but I don't think so. But it will be told in the will. Mr. Chapin is so ridiculously secretive about the will! Sometimes I think she may have left them all to someone else after all."

"Someone else?"

"Yes, someone besides us. I think, don't you, that we ought to be her principal heirs? But she promised me, always, her wonderful diamond pin."

"Huh! I don't think one diamond pin so much! Why, she has——"

"I know, but she always spoke of this particular diamond pin that she destined for me as something especially valuable. I expect it is a sort of Kohinoor."

"Oh, I didn't know about that. And what is she going to leave me, to match up to that?"

"I don't know, I'm sure. But we sound very mercenary, talking like this, before the poor lady is even buried."

"To be honest, Iris, I'm terribly sorry for the way the poor thing was killed, but I can't grieve very deeply, unless I'm a hypocrite. As you know, Aunt Ursula and I weren't good friends——"

"Who could be friends with Aunt Ursula? I tried my best, Win, my very best, but she was too trying to live with! You've no idea what I went through!"

"Oh, yes, I've an idea. I lived with her some years myself. Well, we'll say nothing but good of her now she's gone. I say, Iris, let's take a walk down to the village and see Browne, the jeweler."

"What for?"

"Ask him about her jewels."

"Oh, no, I think that would be horrid. You go, if you like. I shan't."

But Iris went out on the verandah with Bannard, and they ran into Sam Torrey, the brother of Agnes.

"Hello, Sam," said Bannard. "What's that you were saying about seeing a man around here Sunday morning."

"Not morning, but noon," declared Sam, gazing with lack-luster eyes at his questioner.

"Brace up, now, Sam, tell me all you know," and Bannard looked the boy squarely in the eye.

Sam, about seventeen, or so, was of undeveloped intellect, called by the neighbors half-witted. But if pinned down to a subject and his attention kept on it, he could talk pretty nearly rationally.

"Know lots. Saw man here—there—near edge of woods—nice little car, oh, awful nice little car——"

"Yes, go on, what did he do?"

"Do? Do? Oh, nothing. Walked around——"

"Hold on, you said he was in a car."

"No, walked around, sly—oh, so sly——"

"Rubbish! you're making up!"

"Of course he is," said Iris, "he can't tell a connected story. Who was the man, Sam?"

"Don't know name. But—he was at the show to-day."

"At the inquest! No!" Bannard exclaimed.

"Yes, he was. Same man. Oh, I know him, he killed Missy Pell."

"How did he get in the house," Bannard tried to draw him on to further absurd assertions.

"Dunno," and Sam shook his uncertain head. "But he did, and he kill—and kill—and so, he come to show."

"Fool talk!" and Bannard scowled at the defective lad.

"No, sir! Sam no fool."

"Yes, you are, and you know it," Iris declared, but she smiled at him, for she had known the unfortunate boy a long time, and always treated him kindly, but not as a rational human being.

And just then, Browne, the local jeweler, appeared.

He had been sent for by Hughes, in order that they might get some idea of the whereabouts of Mrs. Pell's jewel collection. No one really thought they had all been stored in the small wall safe, and Browne was asked concerning his knowledge.

Several of those most interested clustered round to hear the word and perhaps none was more eager than Mr. Bowen. Quite evidently he had strong hopes of receiving the chalice for his church, and he listened to the jeweler's story.

But it was of little value. Mr. Browne declared his knowledge of many of Mrs. Pell's jewels, which she had shown him, asking his opinion or merely to gratify his interest, and again, when she had wanted to sell some of the smaller ones. But he was sure that she possessed many and valuable stones that he had never seen. He named some diamonds and emeralds that were of sufficient size and weight to be designated by name. He told of some collections that she had bought with his knowledge and advice. And he assured them that he was positive she was the owner of at least two million dollars' worth of unset gems, part of which formed the collection left to her by her husband and part of which she had acquired later, herself.

But Mr. Browne hadn't the slightest idea where these gems were stored for safe keeping. He had sometimes discreetly hinted to Mrs. Pell that he would like to know where they were, merely as a matter of interest, but she had never told him, and had only stated that they were safe from fire, flood or thieves!

"Those were her very words," he asserted, "and when I said that was an all-round statement, she laughed and said they were buried."

"Buried!" cried Iris, "what an idea!"

"A very good idea," Mr. Browne defended. "I'm not sure that isn't the best way to conceal such a stock of valuables."

"But buried where?" pursued the girl.

"That I don't know," said the jeweler.