The three looked at one another in consternation.

"Hughes said it was unsafe," Chapin remarked. "He said you didn't remember to pull down the shades in this room when you hid the pin, Iris."

"No, I didn't, but who could get in? The windows are barred——"

"But the door to the living room was open, and we were all in the dining room—anyone could have come in at the front door and walked in here——"

"Very silently, then, or we could have heard footsteps from the dining room."

"But it must have been done that way. Someone looking in at these windows saw you put the pin in the chair, and a few moments later, watching his chance, sneaked in and stole it."

"Then it was Pollock, or some messenger of his. But what can he want of it?"

"The whole thing is too mysterious!" exclaimed Lucille. "Let's send for a city detective at once."

"But," objected Iris, "what could he do?"

"Do? He could do everything! Find the murderer, find the jewels, find the pin——"

"Good gracious!" cried Iris. "I don't want the pin! In fact, I'm glad it's gone. Now, they won't be kidnapping me to get it! But I'm going to find the jewels. And I'm going to start on a new tack. I'm no good at solving mysteries, but I can investigate. I'm going to Chicago——"

"Whatever for?" exclaimed Lucille; "I'll go with you!"

"No; I'm going alone, and I'm going because I feel sure I can find out something there. I'll see the minister of the church Auntie attended, and see if she promised him a chalice, or if his church has a crypt, or if those people she spoke of in her will—that firm, you know—can tell me anything about the receipt that was in the pocket-book she left to Win."

"But it wasn't in the pocket-book!" reminded Chapin.

"It was when Aunt Ursula made that will. The murderer took it, and, Mr. Chapin, that lets Win out! Why should he steal a paper that was meant for him anyway?"

"He didn't know then that it was left to him, did he?"

"I don't know that, I'm sure. But I know Win didn't kill Aunt Ursula, and it's awful to keep him shut up!"

"I think myself they hardly had enough evidence to arrest him on, but Hughes thought they did, and the district attorney is hard at work on the case now."

"Yes, hard at work!" Iris spoke scornfully, "what's he doing, I'd like to know."

"These things move slowly, Iris——"

"Well, I'll do a little quick work, then, and show them how. I'm going to Chicago to-morrow, and I'll be gone several days, but I'll be back as soon as possible and there'll be something doing, or I'll know why!"

"Your energy is all right, Iris," said Chapin, "but a bit misdirected——"

"Nothing of the sort," snapped Iris, who considered the lawyer an old fogy; "it's time somebody got busy, and I don't take much stock in the local police."

"But about the pin," pursued Lucille, "I think you ought to find out who stole it just now, Iris. Maybe it was somebody in the house. Where is Purdy?"

"Purdy!" cried Iris, "don't suspect him, Lucille! Why, he is as faithful and honest as I am myself."

"But where was he?"

"I don't know, and I don't care; he wasn't in here stealing the pin."

"Perhaps it's still in the chair," suggested Chapin.

But it wasn't. A careful search showed that, and as inquiries proved that Purdy and his wife were in the kitchen and Agnes had been waiting on Iris at her belated dinner, there was really no reason to suspect the servants. Campbell, the chauffeur, was in the garage, and there were no other servants about on Sunday. The disappearance of the pin was as inexplicable as the murder, and Iris decided to give up the house mysteries, and look in Chicago for new light.

She started the next day, Lucille and Agnes hovering over her in a solicitude of final preparations.

"I'll take only a suitcase," Iris declared, "for I can't be bothered with a trunk."

"I wish you'd let Agnes go with you," urged Lucille, who hated to have the girl go alone.

But Iris didn't want to take a maid along, and, too, Agnes didn't want to go.

"I'll go if you say so," Agnes demurred, "but I'd hate to leave here just now. Sam is on one of his spells, and I ought to look after him."

"Oh, yes," and Iris smiled at her, "that's one word for Sam and two for yourself! I think that good-looking young man who calls on you has more power to keep you in Berrien than poor Sam!"

Agnes blushed, but didn't deny it.

So Iris went to Chicago alone. She went to a woman's hotel, and established herself there. Then she set out in search of the church that Mrs. Pell used to attend.

The rector, Dr. Stephenson, was a kindly, courteous old man, who received her with a pleasant welcome. He well remembered Ursula Pell, and was deeply interested in the mystery of her tragic death. It was many years since she had lived in Chicago, and his definite memories of her were largely concerning the pranks she used to play, for even the minister had not been spared her annoying fooleries.

But he knew nothing of any gift of a jeweled chalice, and said he really had no desire for such a thing.

"It would only be a temptation to thieves," he asserted, "and the price of it could be much better expended in some more useful way."

"Is there a crypt in your church?" asked Iris, abruptly.

"No; nothing of the sort. Or—well, that is, there is a room below the main floor that could be called a crypt, I suppose, but it is never used as a chapel, or for mortuary purposes. Why?"

Iris told him of the entry in her aunt's diary stating that the collection of jewels was in a crypt, and Dr. Stephenson smiled.

"Not in my church," he said, "of that I'm positive. The basement I speak of has no hidden places nor has anybody ever concealed anything there. You may search there if you choose, but it is useless. To my mind, it sounds more like a bank vault. That might be called a crypt, if one chose so to speak of it."

"Perhaps," said Iris, disappointed at this fruitless effort. "I will go to the Industrial Bank and inquire. That is the bank where my aunt kept her money when she lived here."

The people at the bank were also kind and courteous, but not so much at leisure as the rector had been. They gave Iris no encouraging information. They looked up their records, and found that Mrs. Pell had had an account with them some years ago, but that it had been closed out when she left the city. There were no properties of hers, of any sort, in their custody, and no one of their vaults was rented in her name.

They seemed uninterested in Iris' story, and after their assurances the girl went away.

Next she went to the firm of Craig, Marsden & Co., to see if she could trace the receipt that was mentioned in Mrs. Pell's will as being of importance to Winston Bannard.

A Mr. Reed attended to her errand.

"A vague description," he said, smiling, as she told him of the will. "To be sure, our books will show the name, but it will take some time to look it up."

However, he agreed to investigate the records, and Iris was told to return the next day to learn results.

It was a mere chance that the record of the sale, whatever it might be, would be of any definite importance, but Iris was determined to try every possible way of finding out anything concerning the matter.

The firm of Craig, Marsden & Co. was a large jewelry concern, and probably the receipt in question was for some precious stones or their settings.

Iris boarded a street car to return to her hotel. She sat, deeply engrossed in thought over the various difficulties that beset her path, when the man who sat next her drew a handkerchief from his pocket.

Abstractedly, she noticed the handkerchief. It was of silk, and had a few lines of blue as a border. Then, suddenly, she realized that it was the exact counterpart of the one with which the midnight marauder had tied up her mouth the time he came to get the pin.

Furtively she glanced at the man. The burglar had been masked, but the size and general appearance of this man were not unlike him. Then, another surreptitious look revealed his features to her, and to her surprise she recognized her caller named Pollock!

Quickly she turned her own face aside (the man had not noticed her) and wondered what to do. Without a doubt it was Pollock, she was sure of that, and the peculiar handkerchief gave her an idea it was the midnight intruder also—that they were one and the same! She had surmised this before, and she now began to join the threads of the story.

She felt sure that Pollock and the burglar and the kidnapper were all one, and that Pollock was determined to get the pin at any cost; and she couldn't believe it was for the reason he had asserted, merely as a memento of the dramatic tragedy.

It had not been this man who drove the little car that carried her away on Sunday, but the driver, as well as the girl called Flossie, were probably Pollock's tools.

At any rate, she concluded to trace Pollock and find out something about him.

When he left the car, as he did shortly, she rose and followed him. He had not glanced at her, and was apparently absorbed in thought, so she had no difficulty in walking, unnoticed, behind him.

She smiled at herself, as she realized she was really "shadowing," and felt quite like a detective.

Pollock went into a small restaurant, and Iris, through the wide window, saw him take a seat at a table. The deliberation with which he unfolded his napkin, and looked over the menu, made her assume that he would be there some time.

Acting on the impulse of the moment, Iris ran to the nearest telephone she could find, and called up a detective agency.

Over the wire she stated her desire to employ a detective at once, and asked to have him sent to her, where she was, which was in a drug shop.

There was a maddening delay, and as Iris waited, she began to fear she had done a foolish thing. She suddenly realized that she had acted too quickly and perhaps unadvisedly. But she must stand by it now.

It was half an hour before a man arrived and met her at the door of the drug shop.

"I am Mr. Dayton," he said, "from the agency. Is this Miss Clyde?"

"Yes," said Iris, "and please hurry! I've just got on the track of a man who is a—a burglar——"

"Ma'am?" and the detective looked sharply at this young girl who had called him to her.

"Yes," and Iris grew impatient at his doubtful interest, "now, don't stop to parley, but catch him."

"Where is he?"

"He's in the restaurant, half a block away. I don't mean for you to arrest him, but trail him, shadow him, or whatever you call it, and find out who he is, and what sort of a character he bears. If he's a correct and decent citizen, all right; if he's a man who might be a burglar, I want to know it! Now, fly!"

"Wait a minute, Miss Clyde. Tell me more. How shall I know him?"

"Oh, he's at the table by the first front window, as you go from here. He's a tall man, and a strong-looking one. Come on, I'll point him out."

They went toward the restaurant, and cautiously Iris looked in at the window. But her quarry had fled. There was no one at the table at all.

"Come on in," she cried to the bewildered Dayton. "No, that won't do, he mustn't see me. You go in, and get the waiter who served him, or the proprietor or somebody, and find out who the man was who ate at that table just now. Maybe he's still in the coat room."

Iris stepped around a corner, and Dayton went in on his errand.

But the waiter had no knowledge of the patron's name. He said he had never seen him before, to his knowledge, but he was a new waiter there, and the captain might know.

However, neither the head waiter nor the cashier, nor indeed anyone about the place, knew the man. A few remembered seeing him, but the waiters at nearby tables, if they had noticed him, didn't know his name.

One waiter said he thought he had seen him before, but wasn't sure. The man was gone, and no one knew which direction he had taken from the restaurant.

Iris was disheartened at the report of her emissary.

"If you'd only got here sooner!" she reproached the detective.

"Did my best," he assured her. "Describe your man more accurately."

But Iris couldn't seem to think of any very distinguishing characteristics that fitted him.

"His name is Pollock," she said, "and he's a collector. Oh, wait, I do know something more. He's in the hardware business."

"For himself, or with a firm?"

"I don't know."

"Then, I fear, Miss Clyde, we're wasting time in looking for a person so vaguely identified. If you say so, I can go over the hardware people for a Pollock, but it will be an unsatisfactory and expensive process."

"I don't want that," and Iris looked perplexed. "Oh, I don't know what I do want! But it's maddening to see him, and then have him get away! He's also a collector."

"Ah, that helps. A collector of what?"

"Of mementoes of crimes——"

"Of what?"

"It sounds silly, I know, but he told me so. Not exactly crimes, more of prominent people. Like a pencil that belonged to President Garfield, and such things."

"Oh, a freak! I hoped you meant a prominent collector of valuable things; then we might trace him."

"No; he collects queer things, it is a sort of harmless mania, I think. Well, if we can't find him, we can't. How much do I owe you?"

This matter was adjusted, and Iris turned disconsolately back to her hotel. She had accomplished nothing on her Chicago trip, and unless the Craig people could give her information of importance, there was no use prolonging her visit.

The rest of that day, and the morning of the next, she spent in the vicinity of the restaurant, hoping Pollock would return.

But she didn't see him, and in the afternoon she went back to Craig, Marsden & Co.

Mr. Reed greeted her pleasantly, but he had no important information.

"We've many records of sales to Mrs. Pell," he related, "and, if you desire, I can give you a memorandum of them. Presumably, she had receipts in every case, but as I do not know the particular receipt you want, I can't offer you any data concerning it."

"What are the transactions?" asked Iris. "Jewels she bought?"

"Yes; and setting, and engraving. Mrs. Pell had a great deal of engraving done."

"What sort of engraving?"

"On silver or gold trinkets and ornaments."

"Oh, yes, I know. All her silver has not only initials, but names and dates, and sometimes quotations or lines of poetry."

"Yes, and she was most particular about that work. It was always done by our best engraver, and unless it just suited her we were treated to her finest sarcasm. Mrs. Pell was a wealthy and extravagant patron, but not affable or easy to please."

"I know that, but she was a remarkable woman and a strong character often has peculiar ways. I am heir to half her fortune, and that gives me a sense of obligation that will never be canceled until I have avenged my aunt's death."

Iris did not tell this man about the missing jewels, for it seemed of no use. But they discussed at length the jewels that he knew that Mrs. Pell had possessed, and Iris was amazed at the size and value of the amount.

"Really!" she exclaimed. "Do you know that my aunt had such an enormous fortune as that, in gems?"

"I know that she had at the time of her dealings with us. That was ten years ago, or so, but then we had the handling of more than a million dollars' worth, and I know she added to her store after that."

"Oh, where are they?" cried Iris forgetting her determination not to discuss this matter here.

"Do you mean to say you don't know?" exclaimed Mr. Reed, astounded.

So Iris told him about the will.

"What an extraordinary tale," he commented as she finished. "I wish I could help you out, I'm sure. Now, no receipt of ours would be of importance in and of itself. It must have had a memorandum scribbled on it, or something of that sort."

"Yes," agreed Iris, thoughtfully, "that must be it. In that case the murderer wanted it because it told where the jewels are hidden."

"And he has already secured them! Oh, no!"

Mr. Reed's interest was so sincere that Iris told him a little more. She told him of the pin, and of her being kidnapped in an attempt to get it.

"You are in danger," Reed said, warningly. "Until they get what they want you will continue to be molested. It isn't the pin—that's too absurd! But they're after something that has to do with the secret of the hiding place of those jewels. On that you may depend."

"But couldn't the pin have some bearing on that?"

"I can't imagine any way that it could. The idea of its being made of radium is ridiculous. The idea of its being a weight or a measure is silly, too; and how else could it be indicative? No, the pin part of the performance is a ruse, the thieves are after something else. If they stole the receipt in question, it was, as I said, because there were instructions on it. Your man Pollock is doubtless the head of the gang. He's no important collector, or I should know of him. And probably his whole collection story was a falsehood. He read of the pin in the paper and used that to distract your mind from what he really was after."

"Very likely," and Iris sighed. "What would you advise me to do?"

"It's too big a case for a layman's advice, and, pardon me, too big a case for a young girl to manage."

"Oh, I know that. I've a very good lawyer, and the police are at work, but nobody seems able to accomplish anything."

"I hope and trust somebody will," said Reed, heartily; "that lot of jewels is too big a loot for crooks to get hold of! I'd be sorry indeed to learn they have done so!"

Iris went away, and as her work in Chicago was done, she decided to start at once for home.

Entering the hotel, she found a telegram from Lucille Darrel. It read:

"Come home at once. I've engaged F.S. and he will arrive to-morrow."

Now, F.S. meant the great detective, Fleming Stone.