"Poor auntie," said Iris, as the tears came, "she always wanted to 'make up!' I believe she couldn't help those silly tricks, Win. It was a sort of mania with her."

"Pshaw! She could have helped it if she'd wanted to. Somebody's coming, put the book away now."

The somebody proved to be Miss Darrel, who, when Bannard was presented, gave him a cordial smile, and proceeded to make friendly advances at once.

"We three are the only relatives present," she said, "and we must sympathize with and help one another."

"You can help me," said Iris, who was irresistibly drawn to the strong, efficient personality, "but I fear I can't help you. Though I am more than willing."

"It is a pleasure just to look at you, my dear, you are so sweet and unspoiled."

Bannard gave Miss Darrel a quick glance. Her speech, to him, savored of sycophancy.

But not to Iris. She slipped her hand into that of her new friend, and gave her a smile of glad affection.

Luncheon was announced and after that came the solemn observances of the funeral.

As Miss Darrel had said, the three were the only relatives present.

Ursula Pell had other kin, but none were nearby enough to attend the funeral. Of casual friends there were plenty, and of neighbors and villagers enough to fill the house, and more too.

Iris heard nothing of the services. Entirely unnerved, she lay on the bed in her own room, and sobbed, almost hysterically.

Agnes brought sal volatile and aromatic ammonia, but the sight of the maid roused Iris' excitement to a higher pitch, and finally Miss Darrel took complete charge of the nervous girl.

"I'm ashamed of myself," Iris said, when at last she grew calmer, "but I can't help it. There's a curse on the house--on the place--on the family! Miss Darrel, save me--save me from what is about to befall!"

"Yes, dear, yes; rest quietly, no harm shall come to you. The shock has completely upset you. You've borne up so bravely, and now the reaction has come and you're feverish and ill. Take this, my child, and try to rest quietly."

Iris took the soothing draught, and fell, for a few moments, into a troubled slumber. But almost immediately she roused herself and sat bolt upright.

"I didn't kill her!" she said, her large dark eyes burning into Miss Darrel's own.

"No, no, dear, you didn't kill her. Never mind that now. We'll find it all out in good time."

"I don't want it found out! It must not be found out! Won't you take away that detective man? He knows too much--oh, yes, he knows too much!"

"Hush, dear, please don't make any disturbance now. They're taking your aunt away."

"Are they?" and suddenly Iris calmed herself, and stood up, quite still and composed. "Let me see," she said; "no, I don't want to go down. I want to look out of the windows."

Kneeling at the front window of Miss Darrel's room, in utter silence, Iris watched the bearers take the casket out of the door.

"Poor Aunt Ursula," she whispered softly, "I _did_ love you. I'm sorry I didn't show it more. I wish I had been less impatient. But I will avenge your death. I didn't think I could, but I must--I know I _must_, and I will do it. I promise you, Aunt Ursula--I vow it!"

"Who killed her?" Miss Darrel spoke softly, and in an awed tone.

"I can't tell you. But I--_I_ am the avenger!"

It was an hour or more later when the group gathered in the living room, listened to the reading of Ursula Pell's last will and testament.

Mr. Bowen's round face was solemn and sad. Mrs. Bowen was pale with weeping.

Miss Darrel kept a watchful eye on Iris, but the girl was quite her normal self. Winston Bannard was composed and somewhat stern looking, and the servants huddled in the doorway waiting their word.

As might have been expected from the eccentric old lady, the will was long and couched in a ma.s.s of unnecessary verbiage. But it was duly drawn and witnessed and its decrees were altogether valid.

As was antic.i.p.ated, the house and estate of Pellbrook were bequeathed to Miss Lucille Darrel.

The positive nod of that lady's head expressed her satisfaction, and Mr.

Chapin proceeded.

Followed a few legacies of money or valuables to several more distant relatives and friends, and then came the list of servants.

A beautiful set of cameos was given to Agnes; a collection of rare coins to the Purdys; and a wonderful gold watch with a jeweled fob to Campbell.

A clause of the will directed that, "if any of the legatees prefer cash to sentiment, they are entirely at liberty to sell their gifts, and it is recommended that Mr. Browne will make for them the most desirable agent.

"The greater part of my earthly possessions," the will continued, "is in the form of precious stones. These gems are safely put away, and their whereabouts will doubtless be disclosed in due time. The entire collection is together, in one place, and it is to be shared alike by my two nearest and dearest of kin, Iris Clyde and Winston Bannard. And I trust that, in the possession and enjoyment of this wealth, they will forgive and forget any silly tricks their foolish old aunt may have played upon them.

"Also, I give and bequeath to my niece, Iris Clyde, the box tied with a blue silk thread, now in the possession of Charles Chapin. This box contains the special legacy which I have frequently told her should be hers.

"Also, I give and bequeath to my husband's nephew, Winston Bannard, the Florentine pocket-book, which is in the upper right-hand compartment of the desk in my sitting room, and which contains a receipt from Craig, Marsden & Co., of Chicago. This receipt he will find of interest."

"That pocket-book!" cried Bannard. "Why, that's the one the thief emptied!"

Everyone looked up aghast. The empty pocket-book, found flung on the floor of the ransacked room, was certainly of Florentine illuminated leather. But whether it was the one meant in the will, who knew?

After concluding the reading of the will, Mr. Chapin handed to Iris the box that had been intrusted to his care. It was very carefully sealed and tied with a blue silk thread.

Slowly, almost reverently, Iris broke the seals and opened the box. From it she took the covering bit of crumpled white tissue paper, and found beneath it a silver ten-cent piece and a common pin.

"A dime and pin!" cried Bannard instantly; "one of Aunt Ursula's jokes!

Well, if that isn't the limit!"

Iris was white with indignation. "I might have known," she said, "I might have known!"

With an angry gesture she threw the dime far out of the window, and cast the pin away, letting it fall where it would.

CHAPTER VII

THE CASE AGAINST BANNARD

"It's just this way," said Lucille Darrel, positively, "this house is mine, and I want it to myself. Ursula Pell is dead and buried and she can't play any more tricks on anybody. I admit that was a hard joke on you, Iris, to get a dime and pin, when for years you've been expecting a diamond pin! I can't help laughing every time I think of it! But all the same, that's your business, not mine. And, of course, you and Mr.

Bannard will get your jewels yet, somehow. That woman left some explanation or directions how to find her h.o.a.rd of gems. You needn't tell me she didn't."