IRIS IN DANGER
Wearily, Iris went upstairs to her own room, and closed the door. Then
she opened it again, for the night was hot and stifling. Without turning
on a light, she went and sat by an open window, leaning her arms on the
sill, and staring, with unseeing gaze, out into the night.
She was thinking about Bannard, and her thoughts were in a chaos. Not
for a moment did she believe him guilty of his aunt's death, but she
could not help a conviction that he had been at Pellbrook that Sunday
afternoon. She wasted no time on the inexplicable mystery of the locked
room, for, she reasoned, whoever did kill Mrs. Pell escaped afterward,
so that point had no bearing on Winston's connection with the crime.
Moreover, she knew, as she feared the police also knew, that Bannard was
deeply in debt, and as he had received the substantial check from his
aunt, and had banked the same, it was all, in a way, circumstantial
evidence that was strongly indicative.
Roger Downing had seen Win around Pellbrook about noon, or he thought
he had, of that she was sure, and Roger's declaration that he would deny
this was of little value, for Hughes would get it out of him, she knew.
Arrest wasn't conviction, to be sure, but--Iris resolutely put away her
own growing suspicions of Bannard. She would stand by him, even in the
face of evidence or testimony--she would--and then she began to
speculate as to the fortune. Those gems were hidden somewhere--and
without Winston to help her how was she to look for them? Knowing Ursula
Pell's tricksy spirit, the jewels might be in the most absurd and
unexpected place. Crypt? Where was any crypt? She inclined a little to
the idea of its being in some church, not in Berrien; for with all Mrs.
Pell's foolishness, Iris didn't think she would hide the treasure in any
but a safe place. And too, the crypt might well be merely the vaults of
some safe deposit company--in Chicago, perhaps, or New York. It was
maddening! Iris thought over the events since the day of her aunt's
death. The awful tragedy itself, the mystery of the unknown assailant
and his manner of escape, the fearful scenes of the inquest, the
funeral, and the police searchings since, and, finally, the arrest of
Bannard. It seemed to Iris she couldn't stand anything more; and yet,
she realized, it had but begun. The mystery was as deep as ever, the
jewels were missing, perhaps would never be found, and Winston's case
looked very dark against him.
"I _must_ find the jewels," Iris mused, as she had done a hundred times
before. "And I must do it by my wits. They are somewhere in safety--of
that I'm sure, and, too, Aunt Ursula has left some hint, some clue to
their hiding-place. If I'm to be of any help to Win, the first thing to
do is to ferret out this matter. Then, we may be better able to trace
the----"
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sight of what seemed to her to be a
shadow, crossing the lawn below her. The shrubbery was dense, and the
night dark, but she discerned a faint semblance of a person skulking
among the trees. She sat motionless, but the shadow faded, and she could
see nothing more of it. Concluding she had been mistaken, she sighed
and was about to draw the blinds and make a light, when she was seized
with a sudden spirit of nervous energy that impelled her to _do_
something--anything, rather than go to bed, where she knew she would
only toss sleeplessly on the pillow.
Silently, not to disturb Miss Darrel, she crossed the hall and went
downstairs. With only a vague notion of looking around, she went into
her aunt's sitting room, and flashed on a light. It was the table lamp
that had been found broken on the floor at the time of the tragedy, but
that now, replaced by a new electrolier, gave a pleasant, soft light.
Coiling up the long green cord, lest she trip on it, Iris sank into an
easy chair near the table.
Restlessly, she arose and walked about the room. Though familiar with
every detail, it looked strange to her, as a room does when one is the
sole occupant. She opened the wall-safe, and stared into its emptiness.
She pulled open some drawers of a cabinet, looked into a few boxes, and
with no definite purpose, sat down at her aunt's desk. Disinterestedly,
she looked over some books and papers, but she knew them all by heart.
She ran over some bundles of letters, hoping to find a penciled
memorandum on the backs, that had been hitherto unnoticed.
Nothing met her eye that seemed important, and she turned from the desk,
her glance falling on the cretonne window curtains that overhung the
lighter lace ones.
"Come out!" she cried, and then quickly, "no, _don't_ come out! Stay
where you are! Who are you?"
The curtain moved very slightly, and Iris rose, and stood, holding the
back of her chair. Her heart was beating wildly, for though possessed
of average courage, to be alone at midnight in a room of sinister
memories, and see the folds of a curtain sway ever so little is, to say
the least, disturbing.
"Who are you, I say!" she repeated angrily, but there was no response,
and the curtain hung still.
A terror passed through her, and left her shivering, with an icy grip at
her heart. Though not at all inclined toward a belief in the
supernatural, there was an uncanny feeling in the atmosphere and Iris
trembled with a strange, weird feeling, as of impending disaster. She
edged a step backward, but as she did so the curtain was flung aside,
and a man stood disclosed--a tall figure, with strong, muscular frame,
and arms extended in a threatening gesture.
"Not a word!" he whispered, "not a sound!" and the glint of a small
revolver flashed toward her. But she was too petrified with fear to
speak, for the man was masked, and the effect of the blackavised
apparition took her breath away. Only for a moment, however, and then a
wave of relief surged over her. For, alarming as a human intruder may
be, he is less frightful than a supernatural visitant.
The color came back to her white cheeks, and she said scornfully, "I am
not afraid of you----"
"You'd better be, then," and the man moved nearer to her. "I've no wish
to harm you, but if you raise an alarm, I shall consider my own safety
first!"
"Coward!"
"Nonsense! I don't mean before yours, you've nothing to fear. But if
you're inclined to call help, I'll have to make it impossible for you to
do so."
The voice was that of an educated man, but entirely unfamiliar to Iris.
Her terror left her, as she realized that at least she hadn't to deal
with a low-class, uncouth ruffian.
"Why should I call help, since you say I've nothing to fear?" she said,
trying to speak coolly, but still watching the carefully held pistol.
"Nothing to fear if you do as I say."
"And what do you say?"
The masked figure came a little nearer. "I say----" he began, but Iris
interrupted.
"Stay where you are! I am not afraid of your pistol; your voice tells me
you would not shoot a defenceless woman, but I command you to keep your
distance."
"My voice belies me, then," he returned coolly. "I'd shoot you quicker'n
a wink, were it necessary to make my getaway. But, listen; you will be
immediately unmolested, if you give me what I have come here to get. I
advise you to give it willingly, but if not--then I must get it as best
I can."
"Take off your mask, won't you?" and Iris' tone was almost formal. "I
know you, don't I?"
"You do not, and something tells me you never will. Pardon me, if I
retain my protecting decoration----"
"Scarcely a decoration," murmured Iris, who was striving to think
quickly what to do.
"Thank you; that implies your belief in a fair share of good looks on my
part. But that's a matter of no moment. And time passes. I am here to
ask you for a matter of no great moment after all. I want the pin that
your late aunt left you in her will."
"Oh, then you are William Ashton?"
"Careful! Not so loud. Yes--I am none other than he." A mock dramatic
gesture accompanied the phrase, and Iris involuntarily smiled.
"You are charming when you smile," the visitor went on. "I may say that,
since I am not making a social call----"
"You seem to be, I think," Iris interrupted him.
"Far from it! You are under a distinct misapprehension. But, alas! your
smiles and charms are not the prize I'm seeking. I want that pin," for
the first time he spoke a little roughly, "and I'm going to have it!"
"What under the heavens do you want of that pin?" exclaimed Iris,
surprised beyond all thought of fear. She had at first supposed he was
after the jewels, or money, at least.
"Never mind what for. Are you going to hand it over?"
"I suppose you are making a collection of dramatic trifles, like Mr.
Pollock. It seems to be a popular pursuit, this gathering material for a
miniature junk-shop!"
"So? Well, are you going to give it to me? Why didn't you put it on the
gate post to-night?"
"For the very good reason that I haven't got it."
"Don't talk that useless chatter. Of course you have it."
"But I haven't. I threw it away, when the lawyer gave it to me, and----"
"No; you didn't. You only pretended to. Come; now, where is it?"
"Will you go away if I give it to you?" Iris was struck with an idea.
"If you give me your word of honor that you're giving me the right
one."
This dissuaded her, for she had intended to give him one from her belt
ribbon.
"I tell you I don't _know_ where it is. Now, cease this useless
interview, please, and leave me."
"I'll do nothing of the sort! You know where that pin is, and I am sure
it's hidden in this room--"
"How utterly absurd you are! Why, _why_ do you want it? I believe you're
crazy!"
"I'm not, as you'll find out! But I intend to have the pin, so make up
your mind to that!" He sprang toward her, laying his automatic on a
table, and with a single gesture, it seemed to Iris, he had a soft silk
handkerchief tied over her mouth, and around her head, in such fashion
that she couldn't utter a sound.
"I'm sorry, as I told you," he went on, in a business-like voice, "but I
_must_ obtain that little piece of property. Will you change your mind
and tell me where it is?"
Iris shook her head vigorously, meaning that she did not know where it
was, but he chose to think she meant a mere negative.
"Then I'll make you!" and he took hold of her arm and twisted it. She
moaned with pain, but he picked up the revolver and threatened her.
Iris was now really frightened, and realized that his gentler mood had
passed, and she was in desperate danger. She cast appealing glances at
him, but he was oblivious to her piteous eyes, and demanded the pin.
Suddenly the thought came to her that the man was crazy, really a
maniac, and in view of this she determined to use her wits to extricate
herself from this dangerous situation. If demented, he might shoot her
as likely as not, and she thought deeply and carefully what it was best
to do. He was distinctly clever, as she had heard maniacs often are, so
she dared not fool him too openly.
Therefore, she acted rather defiantly, until, as she had hoped, this
attitude on her part brought a rough, hard twist of her slender arm,
that really brought the tears to her eyes.
With a limp gesture of surrender, she nodded her head at him, while pain
contorted her face.
"Sorry," he said, again, "but there's no other way. Does that mean
you're going to give me the pin?"
Iris nodded acquiescence, and he stipulated, "The real one?"
Again she nodded, salving her conscience by the thought that her
falsehood was told in self-defence.
"Where is it? No, you needn't speak yet, indicate where it is, and I'll
get it."
Iris nodded her head toward the desk, and the man went to it. He ran his
fingers lightly over the various compartments, watching her the while,
and as he touched one, she nodded.
She had remembered a small packet of papers, pinned with an old and
somewhat rusty pin, and she determined to pass this pin off on him, if
she could make herself dramatically convincing.
"I've always thought I could be an actress," the poor child said to
herself, "now's my time to make good."
So, by dint of indicative nods and glances, she easily made her visitor
discover the packet and the pin. The papers were valueless, and the pin,
which held a paper band round them, was an ordinary, dull, old-looking
one.
It was Iris' clever play of her eyes and her hands,--that betokened a
great unwillingness to part with it, but did so under duress--that
succeeded in making the thief believe it was the pin he was after. He
scrutinized the papers, and threw them aside.
"A good hiding-place," he said, putting the papers back where they had
been. "As obvious as Poe's 'Purloined Letter.' I don't ask you if this
is _the_ pin, for your speaking countenance has told me it is. I only
bid you a very good evening."
He rose quickly, and without a further glance at Iris, he turned off
the electric light on the table, and she heard him step softly through
the living room, and out of one of the low windows that gave on to the
verandah.
She sat where he had left her, not really in pain, but in some
discomfort. Then, lifting her hands she managed to untie the
handkerchief gag. It wasn't difficult, though the tight knot took a few
moments to loosen.
She was tempted to turn on the light, and look at the silk handkerchief
still in her hand, but she feared her visitor might discover the fraud
and return.
She crept softly into the living room, closed and locked the window
through which she had heard him go, and wondered whether it had been
left unfastened or he had forced the catch. But that could wait till
morning. She locked the living-room door on the hall side, for further
safety, and returned to her room, determined to have additional bolts
and bars attached here and there the next day.
Then she remembered the house was not hers, and though she might suggest
she could not dictate.
Hours she lay awake, thinking it all over. In the security of her own
room, she felt no fear and the dawn had begun to show before she slept.
"He's a crazy man," she told herself, finally, just as, at last,
slumber came to her. "But it's queer the same mania attacked two people
at the same time."
Next day she told Lucille Darrel the story.
"No, I don't think he was crazy," Miss Darrel said, "I think he's an
agent of that other man, and they wanted to find out if you had given
the first man the right pin. You see, when you made the second
man--what's his name, Ashton?----"
"Yes, and the first was Pollock."
"Well, when Pollock doubted that you'd given him the right pin, he sent
Ashton to find out, and then when you were so clever as to fool Ashton
so fully, he thought you had been frightened into it, at last."
"But what do they want the pin _for_?"
"Just as Pollock said; to add to a collection of such things. You know
that dime and pin joke is in all the papers. Everybody knows about it."
"But why so desperately anxious to get the very one? If they did have
another, nobody would ever be the wiser."
"Not unless you withheld the real one, and then gave it or sold it to
somebody else later. That would make Pollock's pin a fraud. Now, he's
sure he has the very pin."
"Well, of all rubbish! But, you're right. I suppose friend Ashton went
to the gate post, and not finding it there, he hovered around the house
hoping to get in and hunt for himself."
"Just that. And he did get in--I'm not sure he wouldn't have taken
something more valuable than the pin, if you hadn't caught him."
"I don't know; he didn't seem at all like an ordinary thief. Now, I'm
going to see if Polly knows anything about the real pin."
* * * * *
It was nearly time for the Sunday dinner, and Iris, going to the
kitchen, found the old cook busy with her preparations.
"Oh, don't bother me 'bout that now, Miss Iris," Polly said; "I've
gotter set this custard----"
"Behave yourself, Polly! It won't hurt your old custard to take one
minute to answer my question. Did you take a pin out of the under side
of Agnes' pincushion?"
"Come outside here," and the cook drew Iris out to the kitchen porch.
"Now," she whispered, "don't you talk so free 'bout that pin. Yes, Miss
Iris, I got it, and you kin be mighty glad. That's a vallyble pin, that
is, and don't you fergit it!"
"Valuable, how? And where is it?"
"Well, you know, Mrs. Pell, she set great store by that pin. Many's the
time, when she's been goin' to New York or somewhere, she's said to me,
'Polly, you keep this safe till I get home,' and she'd hand me that
self-same pin. And would I guard it? Well, wouldn't I!"
"But why, _why_, Polly, did she set such store by it?"
"It was her Luck, Miss Iris----"
"Luck, fiddlesticks! Aunt Ursula wasn't a fool! If she'd kept that pin
for luck, she'd have stuck it away and left it alone."
"Now, you know there's no telling _what_ Mrs. Pell would do! Anybody
else might have done this or that, but there's no use sayin' _she_
would. She was a law unto herself. But, anyway, that pin's valuable, and
it don't matter for what reason! So, I got it away from Agnes, who
hasn't a mite of right to it, and saved it for you. Why, Miss Iris,
didn't your aunt, time and again, say she was goin' to leave you a
valuable pin? Her little joke was neither here nor there. She said she'd
leave you a _valuable_ pin--and she did!"
"You're crazy too, Polly. Well, give me the pin; let me see if I can
discover its great value. Perhaps if I rub it a Slave of the Pin will
appear, to grant my wishes!"
"Here it is, Miss Iris," and Polly drew a pin from her bodice, "but for
the land's sake be careful of it! Do, now!"
"I will, honest, I will," and Iris smiled as she took the common pin
from the trembling fingers of the old woman.
"Lemme keep it for you, Miss Iris, dear. Won't you?"
"Maybe I will, later, Polly. I'll enjoy my valuable possession awhile,
myself, first."
Iris went around the lawn toward the side door of the house. As she
went, she looked curiously at the pin and then stuck it carefully in her
shirtwaist frill.
As she neared the side door, she noticed a small motor car standing
there. It was empty, and even as she looked, someone came up stealthily
behind her, threw a thick, dark cloth over her head, picked her up and
lifted her into the little car, and drove rapidly away.
She tried to scream, but a hand was held tightly over her mouth, and try
as she would she could make no sound. She felt the familiar curve as
they drove through the gateway, and turned off on the road that led away
from the village, and Iris realized she was being kidnapped.