"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.