"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!"