Fibsy stuck to half-witted Sam like a leech. The boy's theory was that Sam had stolen the pin, as he said, and that he had hidden it with the cunning of a defective mind, in a place most unlikely to be suspected. So Fibsy cultivated the lackwit's acquaintance and established friendly relations.

Agnes rather resented Fibsy's attitude, but his wheedlesome ways won her heart, too, and the three were often together.

In fact, Fibsy enlisted Agnes on his side, and convinced her that they must learn from Sam where the pin was hidden, if he had really stolen it.

It was difficult to get information from Sam himself, for his statements were contradictory and misleading. But, by watching him closely, Fibsy hoped to catch him off guard, and make him reveal his secret.

Sam babbled of the pin continually. As Agnes said, whenever he got a new topic in his poor, disordered brain, he harped on it day and night.

"Pinny, pin, pin," he would chant, in his sing-song way, "nice pinny, pin, pin, where are you? Where are you? Nice pinny-pin, where are you?"

It was enough to drive one frantic, but Fibsy encouraged it as a means toward an end.

And one day he found Sam down on his knees poking a sharp-pointed stick in between the boards of the kitchen floor. The cracks were wide in the old house, and Fibsy held his breath as he, himself unseen, watched the idiot boy diligently digging.

But it amounted to nothing. After turning out many little piles of dust and dirt, Sam rose, and said, dejectedly, "No pinny-pin there! Where is it? Oh, oh, oh—where is it?"

Fibsy had learned the workings of the queer mind, and he was sure now that Sam had hidden the pin, but not in a floor crack. The mention of that hiding-place had been made by Sam to turn suspicion from the real one, and then the idea had stuck in his head, and, Fibsy feared, he had forgotten the true place of concealment.

This would be a catastrophe, for it might then be the pin would never be found! So Fibsy stuck to his self-imposed task of standing by Sam, hoping for a chance revelation.

"Go ahead," Fleming Stone told him, "do all you can with Sam. I, too, feel sure he took the pin from the chair, where Miss Clyde put it. Find the pin, Fibsy boy, find the pin, and I'll do the rest."

Stone spent an entire morning in Mrs. Pell's room, going over her old letters and getting every possible light on her earlier life.

He learned that she had been born and reared in a small town in Maine, that she had married and gone abroad for a stay of several years, that after that she had lived in Chicago, and for the past ten years had resided at Pellbrook. Her husband had died fifteen years ago, and left her his great fortune, mostly in precious stones. Ten years ago, when she came to Berrien, she had taken all the jewels from the bankers' and had concealed them in some place of safety which was not known to any one but herself.

Her diary attested this fact, over and over again. But it gave no hint as to where the hiding-place might be.

Stone pondered long and deeply over the statement that the gems were in some crypt, and, as he thought, a great inspiration came to him.

"Of course!" he said to himself, "it is that! It can be nothing else!"

But he confided his new theory to nobody; he only began to ask more questions.

He quizzed Iris as to her Chicago visit, and wanted a detailed account of every minute she had spent there. Then he asked her more particularly about the house where she was taken in the little motor car.

"Let's try to find it," Stone said, "let's go now."

They started off in a runabout, which Stone drove himself. Knowing that the house might be in Meadville, they went that way.

Iris was unable to verify the route, so they went there on the chance.

"A wild goose chase, probably," Stone conceded, "but we'll make a stab at it. You see, Miss Clyde, I'm getting the thing narrowed down to a few main propositions. There is, first, a master mind at the head of all the mystery. He is the murderer, he is your caller, Pollock, he is William Ashton, he is the man you saw in Chicago, who attacked you that night in Mrs. Pell's room, who kidnapped you that Sunday—in fact, he is the man at the helm. He has underlings, but I do not think they are accomplices or confederates, they are merely hirelings. Now, of course, Pollock is not this man's real name, but we will call him that for identification among ourselves. This Pollock wanted the pin, we'll say, and not only the pin, but the paper, the receipt that was in the Florentine pocket-book, and that was definitely bequeathed to Mr. Bannard. That paper is quite as valuable as the pin, and he did get that."

"Why, that was just a receipt——"

"Yes, and the pin was just a pin! But we want them both, and therefore we want the man, Pollock."

"This is Meadville, but I don't see any house that could possibly be the one they took me to. It had rather high stone front steps, with brick uprights to them."

They soon went through the little town, but no such peculiarity was to be found.

"Don't give up the ship too easily," said Stone, smiling at Iris' frown of disappointment, "we haven't exhausted our resources yet."

A few inquiries showed him the office of Clement Foster, the insurance agent.

Here Iris saw a calendar exactly like the one that had been in the room where Flossie searched her.

After a little talk, Fleming Stone discovered that the agent had given out few of those calendars outside his home town, but he mentioned some names that he remembered.

"Do any of these people live in a house with high stone steps?" the detective queried.

"Lemme see; yes, Joe Young, over to East Fallville, has stone steps."

"With brick uprights?" asked Iris, eagerly.

"Yes, that's right. Nice little house it is, too. Right on Maple Avenue, the prettiest street in that village."

Thanking the agent, the inquiring pair went on their way, rejoicing. And sure enough the house of Joe Young proved to be the very one where Iris had been taken.

They went in, and after introducing himself Stone learned that Mr. Young was decidedly interested in the Pellbrook mystery, and that his father had built the well-safe in Mrs. Pell's room.

Moreover, Young had attended the inquest, and had kept in touch with all the developments so far as he could learn them.

But it was impossible to associate him with the kidnapping of Iris. He was too frankly interested and sympathetic to be suspected of playing a part or deceiving them in his attitude toward them.

"Where were you a week ago Sunday?" Stone asked him suddenly.

"Why, let me think. Oh, yes, my wife and I went over to Meadville and spent the day with her mother's folks. Yes, that's what we did. Why?"

"Who was here in this house?" Stone went on.

"Nobody. It was locked up all day."

"Has anyone a key to it, excepting yourself?"

"No, nobody. Oh, yes, my brother has, but he's in Chicago."

"Was he in Chicago then?"

"Why, yes, I s'pose so. I don't know. Why?"

"Could he have come here that day, without your knowing it?"

"Of course he could have done so, and now you speak of it, I remember my wife said she smelt cigar smoke when we came home. I didn't notice it myself."

"What's your brother's name?"

"Young, Charlie Young. Is he up to anything wrong?"

"Is he apt to be?"

"Well, I wouldn't put it past him. Charlie's a case! I've tried to do well by him, but he's been a thorn in my side for years. I'm always expecting to have him turn up in trouble of one sort or another. Yes, if you ask me, he might have been here that day, and cut up any sort of monkey-shines!"

"Do you know any young lady named Flossie?"

"Nope, never heard of any, that I remember. But Charlie has queer friends, if that's what you're getting at. Say, tell me more about the Pell case, if you're from Berrien. How did the murderer get out?"

"I haven't discovered that yet, but I hope to do so. I understand your father was an expert carpenter and joiner?"

"Yes, sir, he was that. He died some four years ago, but I've many examples of his fine work. Want to see some?"

But Stone could not stay to gratify the son's pride in the paternal accomplishments and the two callers left and went back to Pellbrook.

"There's the man," said Stone, briefly. "Charlie Young is the master mind behind all this deviltry."

"Did he kill Aunt Ursula?" asked Iris with angry eyes.

"I don't say that, yet," Stone said, cautiously, "but he's the man who is after the pin and——"

The detective fell into a deep study and Iris, busy with her own thoughts, did not interrupt him.

She positively identified the house as the one to which she had been taken, and if Mr. Stone said that Charlie Young was the villain who had directed the kidnapping, though he did not appear himself, she had no doubt Stone wad right.

"And I've got a letter that Charlie Young wrote," Stone exulted. "I rather think that will go far toward freeing Mr. Bannard!"

"Oh, how?"

"I believe that Young wrote that letter signed William Ashton, and purposely made it look like the disguised hand of Winston Bannard."

"It was exactly like Win's writing, but different, too. The long-tailed letters were just like Win's."

"Yes, and that helps prove it. If Bannard had tried to disguise his own writing, the first thing he would have thought of would be not to make those peculiar long loops. Now their presence shows a clever trickster's effort to make the writing suggest Bannard at once, but also to suggest a disguised hand."

"That is clever! How can you ever catch such an ingenious villain? Shall you arrest him at once?"

"Oh, no, to suspect is not to accuse, until we have incontrovertible proof. But we'll get it! Lord, what a brain! And, yet, it may be easier to catch a smarty like that than a duller, more plodding mind. You see, he is so brilliant of scheme, so quick of execution, that he may well overreach himself, and tumble into a trap or two I shall set for him."

"Doubtless he knows you are here, doesn't he?"

"Surely; but that doesn't matter. If things are going as I hope, I'll bag him soon!"

"And yet you're not sure he's the murderer?"

"No, Miss Clyde, and I'm inclined to think he was not. However, we must proceed with caution, but we can work swiftly, and, I hope, reach the end soon. Matters are coming to a focus."

As they drove under the Pellbrook porte cochÈre, a strange-looking figure ran to greet them.

"Hello, darkey boy, who are you?" sang out Stone, as the blackamoor grinned at them.

Iris stared, and then burst out, laughing. "Why, it's Terence!" she cried. "For goodness' sake, Fibsy, what have you been doing?"

The boy was quite as black as any chimney sweep—indeed, as any full-blooded negro. He had run up from the cellar at the approach of the motor, and stood grinning at Iris and Stone.

"I'm on a trail," he said, "and it's a mighty dark one.

"Where will it lead you—to light?" asked Stone, smiling at the earnest, blackened face.

"I hope so, oh, Mr. Stone, I hope so! For the trail is somepin' fierce, be-lieve me!"

"Well, look out, don't get near Miss Clyde, nor me, either! You're a sight, Fibsy!"

"Yessir, I know it," and, without another word, the boy turned and disappeared down the cellar entrance.

Iris went into the house, but Stone went down to the cellar to see what Fibsy was doing. He found the boy diligently shoveling coal from one large coal bin to another. Nearby was Sam, quite as black as Fibsy, and the two were a comical sight.

Sam was seated on a box, rocking back and forth in an ecstasy of glee, and crooning, "Colole, colole, pinny-pin in colole!"

"That's what he says, Mr. Stone," Fibsy defended himself, "so if pinny-pin is in the coal-hole, I'm going to get her out! And if not, then Sam's fooled me again, that's all!"

"Terence Maguire! Do you mean to say you're going to hunt for a needle in a haystack—I mean a pin in a coal-hole?"

"Just that, sir. I'm onto friend Boobikins' curves, now, and I fully believe that his present dope is the answer! Anyway, I'm taking no chances."

"But, Fibs, it's impossible——"

"Sure it is, that's why I'm doing it. You run away and play, Mr. Stone, and let me work out this end. Didn't you tell me to find the pin? Well, I'm obeyin' orders."

Fibsy turned to his task again, and Stone watched him for a few minutes. The boy laboriously took up the coal in a small shovel, looked it over with sharpest scrutiny and then dumped it into the other bin.

By good luck the bins adjoined and the task was one of patience and perseverance rather than of difficulty.

Stepping toward his faithful assistant, Fleming Stone held out his hand, and said, quietly, "Put it there, Terence!"

Eagerly the little black paw slipped into the big, strong white one, and the handshake that ensued was all the reward or recognition the happy boy wanted.

Stone went upstairs again, and Fibsy whistled gaily as he continued his self-chosen task.

Sam, sitting by, cheered him on by continued assertions that he had thrown the pin in the coal-bin, and had not buried it in a crack of the floor.

And, as Fibsy had declared, he knew the half-wit now well enough to feel pretty sure when he was telling the truth and when not.

Meantime, Stone was pursuing his investigations. That afternoon he drove to Red Fox Inn. He went alone, and by dint of bribes and threats he learned that Charlie Young had been there since the day of the murder, and had instructed the waiter who had served Bannard at his Sunday luncheon to say that Bannard was coming from New York and not going to it. These instructions were made as commands and were backed up by certain forcible arguments that insured their carrying out.

It became clear, therefore, that Young was interested in making it seem that Bannard was at Pellbrook on Sunday afternoon instead of Sunday morning, which latter Stone firmly believed to be the case.

Further discreet inquiry proved Young to be a frequent visitor at the inn, on occasions when he was in the locality, and that was said to be often, especially of late.

Stone went back, exultant, his brain working swiftly and steadily toward his solution of the many still perplexing points.

Later that afternoon, as it was nearing dusk, a yell from the cellar told, without words, that Fibsy's quest had succeeded.

Lucille and Iris followed Fleming Stone's flying footsteps down the stairs and found Fibsy, black but triumphant.

"Here's your pinny-pin, Mr. Stone!" he cried, exhausted from fatigue and excitement, and with perspiration streaming down his sooty face. "Don't tell me it mayn't be the one! It's gotter be—oh, F.S., it's gotter be!"

Only in moments of strong excitement did Terence address his employer by anything but his dignified name, but this moment was a strenuous one, and Fibsy broke loose. Tears rolled down his cheeks, as he gave the detective a pleading look.

"All right, Fibs, I've no doubt it's the one. Pins don't grow much in coal-holes, and though it may not be——" a glance at the woeful countenance made him quickly revise his speech, "But it is! I'm sure it is," he finished, smiling kindly at the big-eyed blackamoor.

"Sure! sure!" cried Sam, capering about, "nice pinny-pin! Sam put it there after Missy Iris put it in chair."

Fleming Stone looked at the pin curiously. As he had been informed, it was a common pin, of medium size, with nothing about it to distinguish it from its millions of brothers that are lost every day, everywhere.

"I'll take it up where there's a better light on it," he said, finally. "Fibsy, you're a trump, old boy, and after you've sought the assistance that a bath-tub grants, return to the sitting room, and I'll tell you of the value of your find, in words of one syllable."

Elated beyond all words, Fibsy ran away to bathe, and the others went to the sitting room that had been Ursula Pell's.

With a very strong lens, Fleming Stone examined the pin.

"This pin is worth its weight in gold, a million times over," he said, after the briefest examination. "It explains all!—your aunt's bequest, the efforts of Young to get it—but, I say, let's wait till Fibsy comes down before I tell you the pin's secret. It's his due, after he found it for us."

"Yes, indeed, wait," agreed Lucille, "he'll be down soon. I'll go and call to him to make haste."

"Don't tell me all," said Iris to Stone, as the two were left alone, "I want to wait till Terence comes—but tell me this, will it free Winston?"

"I hope so," Stone returned, "though it's another part of the mystery. But, to my mind, Mr. Bannard is freed already."

"Let me see the pin," and Iris took it in her hand. "Why, it is a common pin! How can you say there's anything peculiar about it?"

"You'll know soon," and Stone smiled at her. "Anyway, whatever else it means, it doubtless points the way to the recovery of the fortune of jewels that was bequeathed to you and Mr. Bannard."

"I don't want the fortune unless Winston is freed," said Iris, sadly; "if you think Charlie Young is the criminal, when are you going to get him? But you say you're not sure he killed Aunt Ursula."

"No, I'm not at all sure that he did," Stone returned gravely. "In fact, I'm inclined to think he did not."

"Then who did?"

But before Stone could answer, there was an agonized whelp from outside, as of an animal in pain.

"Goodness!" cried Iris, "that's Pom-pom's cry! Oh, my little dogsie! What has happened?"

She flew out of the room, and ran out on the lawn, from which direction she had heard the terrified cry.

Remembering the pin, as she ran, she stuck it carefully in her belt and hurried to the spot whence the sounds proceeded.

It was nearly dark now, and she sped across the grass, in fear for the safety of her pet.

Stone started to follow her, but Lucille appeared just then, and he paused to explain matters to her.

When they reached the lawn, Iris was nowhere to be seen, and the little dog, cruelly beaten, was whining in pain and distress.

Listening intently, Stone heard the last sounds of a disappearing motor car in the distance.

"Kidnapped again!" he cried, angrily. "And she's got the pin with her! Young, of course! Oh, how careless I've been!" and calling to Campbell, he ran toward the garage for a car.

"But how can you follow?" asked Lucille, distractedly, "you don't know which way they went, after the turn, do you?"

"No," said Stone, despairingly, "I don't."