The shock of Bannard's arrest caused the complete collapse of Iris. Miss Darrel put the girl to bed and sent for Doctor Littell. He prescribed only rest and quiet and ordinary care, saying that a nurse was unnecessary, as Iris' physical health was unaffected and he knew her well enough to feel sure that she would recuperate quickly.

And she did. A day or two later she was herself again, and ready to follow up her determination to avenge the death of Ursula Pell.

"It's too absurd to suspect Win!" she said to the Bowens, who called often. "That boy is no more guilty than I am! Of course, he wasn't up here last Sunday! But no one will believe in his innocence until the real murderer is found. And I'm going to find him, and find the jewels, and solve the whole mystery!"

"There, there, Iris," Miss Darrel said, soothingly, for she thought the girl still hysterical, "don't think about those things now."

"Not think about them!" cried Iris, "why, what else can I think of? I've thought of nothing else for the whole week. It's Saturday now, and in six days we've done nothing, positively nothing toward finding the criminal."

"Perhaps it would be better not to try," suggested Mr. Bowen, gently.

"You say that because you believe Win guilty!" Iris shot at him. "I know he wasn't! You don't think he was, do you, Mrs. Bowen?"

"I scarcely know what to think, Iris, it is all so mysterious. Even if Winston did commit the crime, how did he get out of the room?"

"That's a secondary consideration——"

"I don't think so," put in the rector. "I think that's the first thing to be decided. Knowing that one could speculate——"

Iris turned away wearily. Though fond of the gentle little Mrs. Bowen, she had never liked the pompous and self-important clergyman, and she rose now to greet someone who appeared at the outer door.

It was Roger Downing, who, always devoted to Iris, was now striving to earn her gratitude by showing his willingness to be of help in any way he might. He came every day, and though Iris was careful not to encourage him, she eagerly wanted to know just what he knew about Bannard's presence at Pellbrook on the day of the tragedy.

"It's this way," Downing expressed it. "Win was certainly up here last Sunday, for I saw him. Now, Iris, if you want me to say I was mistaken as to his identity, I'll say it—but, I wasn't."

"You mean, sir, you would tell an untruth?" said Mr. Bowen, severely.

"I mean just that," averred Downing; "I care far more for Miss Clyde and her wishes than I do for the Goddess of Truth. I'm sorry if I shock you, sir, but that is the fact."

Mr. Bowen indeed looked shocked, but Iris said, emphatically, "You were mistaken, Roger, you must have been!"

"Very well, then, I was," he returned, but everyone knew he was purposely making a misstatement.

"Where was he?" said Iris, altogether illogically.

"In the woods, near the orchard fence."

"Sunday afternoon?"

"No; not afternoon. I'm not just sure of the time, but it was about noon. I was taking a long walk; I'd been nearly to Felton Falls, and was coming home to dinner. I only caught a glimpse of him, and I didn't think anything about it, until—until he said he hadn't been out of New York city on Sunday."

"Then, if you only caught a glimpse," Iris said quickly, "it may easily have been someone else! And it doubtless was."

"Shall I say so? Or do you want the truth?"

Iris dropped her eyes and said nothing. But Mr. Bowen spoke severely; "Cease that nonsense, Roger. Tell what you saw, and tell it frankly. The truth must be told."

"It's better to tell it anyway," declared Lucille Darrel, "truth can't harm the innocent. But it seems to me Mr. Downing may be mistaken."

"No, I'm not mistaken. Why, he wore that gray suit with a Norfolk jacket, that I've seen him wear before this summer. And he had on a light gray tie, with a ruby stickpin. The sun happened to hit the stone and I saw it gleam. You know that pin, Iris?"

Iris knew it only too well, and she knew, moreover, that when Win came up Sunday evening he wore that same suit, and the same scarf and pin. He had gone back to town the next day for other clothing, but when he had rushed to Berrien in response to Iris' summons, he had not stopped to change.

And yet, she was not ready, quite, to believe Downing's story. Suppose, in enmity to Win, he had made this all up. He might easily describe clothing that he knew Winston possessed, without having seen him as he said he had.

Iris looked at Downing so earnestly that he quailed before her glance.

"I don't believe your story at all!" she said; "you are making it up, because you hate Win, and it's absurd on the face of it! If Win came up here on Sunday at noon, he would come in for dinner, of course——"

"Not if he came with sinister intent," interrupted Downing.

"I don't believe it! You have made up that whole yarn, and let me tell you, you didn't do it very cleverly, either! Why didn't you say you saw him in the afternoon? It would have been more convincing, and quite as true!"

"I wasn't near here myself in the afternoon. But I did pass here just before twelve, and I did see him." Downing's voice had a ring of truth. "However, after this, I shall say I did not see him. I know you prefer that I should."

He looked straight at Iris, and ignored Mr. Bowen's pained exclamation.

"Say whatever you like, it doesn't matter to me," the girl returned haughtily.

"It does matter to you—and to Win. So, I shall say I was mistaken and that I did not see Winston Bannard on Sunday. I shall expect you, Mr. Bowen, and you ladies, not to report this conversation to the police. If you are questioned concerning it, you must say what you choose. But you will not be questioned, unless someone now present tattles."

Later that day, Iris had another caller. He sent up no card, but Agnes told her that a Mr. Pollock wished to see her.

"Don't go down, if you don't want to," urged Lucille, "I'll see what he wants."

But Miss Darrel's presence was not satisfactory to the stranger. He insisted on seeing Miss Clyde.

So Iris came down to find a man of pleasant manner and correct demeanor, who greeted her with dignity.

"I ask but a few moments of your time, Miss Clyde. I am Rodney Pollock, home Chicago, business hardware, but as a recreation I am a collector."

"And you are interested in my late aunt's curios," suggested Iris. "I am sorry to disappoint you, but they are not available for sale yet, and, indeed, I doubt if they ever will be."

"Don't go too fast," Mr. Pollock smiled a little, "my collection is not of rare bibelots or valuable curios. Perhaps I'd better confide that I'm an eccentric. I gather things that, while of no real use to others, interest me. Now, what I want from you, and I am willing to pay a price for it, is the ten cent piece and the pin your aunt left to you in her will."

"What!" and Iris stared at him.

"I told you I was eccentric," he said, quietly, "more, I am a monomaniac, perhaps. But, also, I am a philosopher, and I know, that, as old Dr. Coates said, 'If you want to be happy, make a collection.' So I collect trifles, that, valueless in themselves, have a dramatic or historic interest; and I wish," he beamed with pride, "you could see my treasures! Why, I have a pencil that President Garfield carried in his pocket the day he was shot, and I have a shoelace that belonged to Charlie Ross, and——"

"What very strange things to collect!"

"Yes, they are. But they interest me. My business, hardware, is prosaic, and having an imaginative nature I let my fancy stray to these tragic mementoes of crime or disaster. I have a menu card from the Lusitania and a piece of queerly twisted glass from the Big Tom explosion. I look reverently upon the relics of sad disasters, and I value my collection as a numismatist his coins or an art collector his pictures."

"But it seems so absurd to ask for a common pin!"

"It may, but I would greatly like to have it. You see, it was an unusual gift. You didn't care for it, in fact, I have heard you indignantly spurned it."

"I did."

"They say, you expected a diamond pin, and your aunt left you a dime and pin! Is that so?"

"That is so."

"Pardon my smiling, but I think it's the funniest thing I ever heard. And I would greatly like to have that pin and that dime."

"I'm sorry to say it's impossible, as I flung them away, and I've no idea where they landed."

"If you had them would you sell them to me?"

"I'd give them to you, if I had them! Why, it was merely an ordinary dime, not an old or rare coin. And the pin was a common one."

"Yes, I know that, but the idea, you see, the strange bequest—oh, I greatly desire to have one or the other of those two things! Can't we find them? Where did you throw them?"

"The dime I remember throwing out of the window. It must have fallen in the grass, you never could find that! The pin, I tossed on the floor, I think——"

"Has the room been swept since?"

"No, it has not. It should have been, but we have been so upset in the house——"

"I quite understand. I have a home and family, and I know what housekeeping means. However, since the room has not been swept, may I look around a bit in it?"

"It is this room, the room we are in. I sat right here, when I opened the box. I threw the dime out of that window, and I flung the pin over that way. I confess to a quick temper, and I was decidedly indignant. Let us look for the pin, and if we find it you may have it."

Iris was pleasantly impressed by Mr. Pollock's manner and set him down in her mind as a ridiculous but good-natured lunatic—not really insane, of course, but a little hipped on the subject of mementoes.

At her permission, her visitor fell on hands and knees, and went quickly over the floor of the whole room. Iris with difficulty restrained her laughter at the nimble figure hopping about like a frog, and peering into corners and under the furniture.

She looked about also, but from the more dignified position of standing, or sitting on a chair or footstool.

The search grew interesting, and at last they considered it completed. Their joint result was four pins and a needle.

Mr. Pollock presented a chagrined face.

"It may be any one of these," he said, ruefully looking at the four pins.

"That's true," Iris agreed. "But you may have them all, if you wish."

"Can't you judge which it is? See, this one is extra large."

"Then that's not it. I know it was of ordinary size. I scarcely looked at it, but I know that. Nor was it this crooked one. It was straight, I'm sure. But it may easily have been either of these other two."

"Suppose I take these two, then, and put them in my collection, with the surety that one or other is the identical pin."

"Do so, if you like," and Iris gave him a humoring smile. "Now, do you care to hunt for the dime? If you do, there's the lawn. But I won't help you, the sun is too warm."

"I think I won't hunt, or if I do, it will be only a little. I have this pin, and that is sufficient for a memento of this case. I am on my way to a house in Vermont, where I hope to get a button that figured in a sensational tragedy up there. I thank you for being so kind and I would greatly prefer to pay you for this pin. I am not a poor man."

"Nonsense! I couldn't take money for a pin! You're more than welcome to it. And one of those two must be the one, for I'm sure there's no other pin on this floor."

"I'm sure of that, too. I looked most carefully. Good-by, Miss Clyde, and accept the gratitude of a man who has a foolish but innocent fad."

Iris bowed a farewell at the front door, and returned to the living-room smiling at the funny adventure.

Almost involuntarily she began to look over the floor again, searching for pins.

"Have you lost anything?" asked Agnes, coming by.

"No; I've been looking for a pin."

"Want one, Miss Iris? Here's one."

"No, I don't want a pin, I mean—I don't want—a pin." Iris concluded her sentence rather lamely, for she had been half inclined to tell Agnes the story of her visitor, when something restrained her.

Perhaps it was Agnes' expression, for the maid said, "Were you looking for the pin Mrs. Pell left you?"

"Yes, I was," said Iris, astonished at the query.

"I have it," Agnes went on. "I picked it up the day you threw it away."

"For gracious' sake! Why did you do that?"

"Because—that's a lucky pin. Miss Iris, your aunt had that pin for years."

"I know it; it's been years in that box Mr. Chapin held for me."

"But before that. When I first came to live with Mrs. Pell, she always wore a pin stuck in the front of her dress. Once I took it out, it looked so silly, you know. She blew me up terribly, and said if I ever disturbed her things again she'd discharge me. And I gave it back to her—I had stuck it in my own dress—and she wore it for a short time more, and then she didn't wear it. Even then, I wouldn't have thought anything much about it, but a maid who lived here before I did, said she lost a pin once that had been in the waist of Mrs. Pell's gown and they had an awful time about it."

"Did they find it?"

"I don't know. I think not. I think she took another pin for a 'Luck.' Why, Polly knew about it. She said when she heard what Mrs. Pell had left to you, that it might be the lucky pin."

"Oh, what foolishness! Well, Agnes, have you really got the pin that Aunt Ursula left to me?"

"Yes, ma'am, as soon as I saw you throw it away, I watched my chance to go and pick it up before Polly could get it."

"Do you want to keep it?"

"Not if you want it, Miss Iris. If not, I'd like to have it. I suppose it's superstitious, but it seems lucky to me."

"Go and get it, Agnes, and let me see it."

But the maid returned without the pin.

"I can't find it, Miss Iris. I put it on the under side of my own pincushion, and there's none there now. I asked Polly and she said she didn't touch it. Where could it have gone?"

"You used it unthinkingly. It doesn't matter, there's no such thing as a lucky pin, Agnes. You can just as well take any other pin out of Aunt Ursula's cushion—take one, if you like—and call that your 'Luck.' Don't be a silly!"

Iris smiled to think that neither of the pins her strange visitor carried off with him was the right one, after all. "But," she thought, "it makes no difference, anyway, as he thinks he has it. He's sure it's one of the two he has; if there were three uncertain ones it would be too complicated. Let the poor man rest satisfied. I wonder if he found the dime."

But looking from the window she could see no sign of her late caller, and she dismissed the subject from her mind at once.

Yet she had not heard the last of it.

In the evening mail a letter came for her. It was in an unfamiliar handwriting, and was written on a single plain sheet of paper.

The note ran:

William Ashton.

That evening Iris told Lucille all about it.

"What awful rubbish," commented that lady. "But I know people who make just such foolish collections. One friend of mine collects buttons from her friends' dresses. Why, I'm afraid to go there, with a gown trimmed with fancy buttons; she rips one off when you're not looking! It's really a mania with her. Now two men are after your pin. Have you got it? I'd sell it for a hundred dollars, if I were you. And that man will pay. Those collectors are generally honest."

"No; I haven't it." And Iris proceeded to tell of Agnes' connection with the matter.

"H'm, a Luck! I've heard of them, too. Sometimes they're worth keeping. Oh, no, I'm not really superstitious, but an old Luck is greatly to be reverenced, if nothing more. If that pin was Ursula's Luck, you ought to keep it, my dear."

"But I haven't it. If it is a Luck, and if its possession would help me—would help to free Win—I'd like to see the collector that could get it away from me!"

"Oh, it mightn't be so potent as all that, but after all, a Luck is a Luck, and I'd be careful how I let one get away."

"But it has got away. And, too, I let friend Pollock go off with the idea that he had it; now, if I were to let somebody else take it, Mr. Pollock would have good reason to chide me."

"But how did this other man know about it?"

"I've no idea, unless he and Pollock are friends and compare notes."

"But how did—what's his name?—Ashton, know it was lost?"

"That's so, how did he? It's very mysterious. What shall I do?"

"Nothing at all. You can't put it on the gatepost, if you don't know where it is. But I'd certainly try to find it. Ask Polly what she knows about it."

"I will, to-morrow. She's gone to bed by now. Poor old thing, she works pretty hard."

"I know it. I'll be glad when I get a whole staff of new servants. But I'll wait till this excitement is over."

That was Miss Darrel's attitude. She had received her inheritance and selfishly took little interest in that of the other heirs.