"Not definitely. She sometimes spoke of the valuable pin that would some day be mine, or the important legacy I should receive, or the great treasure she had bequeathed to me, but I never remember of hearing her say it was a costly gem or a valuable stone. She was always particular to tell the literal truth, while intentionally misleading her hearer. You see I am so familiar with her jests that I know all these details. It seems to me, now, that I ought to have realized from the way she said 'dime an' pin' that she was tricking me. But few people pronounce _diamond_ with punctilious care; nearly everybody says 'di'mond'." "Not in New England," observed Lucille Darrel, positively. "Perhaps not," agreed Iris. "But anyway, it never occurred to me that she meant anything else than a diamond pin, and one of her finest diamonds at that. However, as I said, it isn't that joke of hers that troubles me, so much as the thought that she left her entire collection of jewels to Mr. Bannard and myself and gave us no instructions where to find them. It isn't like her to do that. Either she has left directions, which we must find, or she fully intended to do so, and her sudden death prevented it. That's what I'm afraid of. She was of rather a procrastinating nature, and also, greatly given to changing her mind. Now, she distinctly states in her diary that the jewels are all in the crypt, and I am firmly convinced that she intended to, or did, tell where that crypt is. If we can't find any letter or other revelation, we must look for the crypt itself, but I confess I think that would be hunting a needle in a haystack; for Aunt Ursula had a varied life, and before she settled down here she lived in a dozen different cities in many parts of the world." "You're right, Miss Clyde," and Hughes nodded, "she prob'ly left some paper telling where that crypt is situated. Me, I believe it's in this house, but all the same, we've got to look mighty sharp. I don't want to miss it, I can tell you. Sorry, Miss Darrel, but we'll have to go through your cellar with a keen search." "That's all right," Miss Darrel acquiesced. "I'm more than willing to allow a police hunt, but I don't want every Tom, Dick and Harry pulling my house to pieces." "Lucky my name's Winston," said Bannard, good-naturedly. "Do you mind if I go with the strong arm of the law?" "No," said his hostess, "and don't misunderstand me, young man. I've nothing against you, personally, but I don't admit your rights, as I do those of the police." "I know; I understand," and Bannard followed the detective down the cellar stairs. All this occurred the day after Ursula Pell's funeral. In the four days that had elapsed since her inexplicable death, no progress had been made toward solving the mystery. The coroner's inquest had brought out no important evidence, there were no clues that promised help, and though the police were determined and energetic, they had so little to work on that it was discouraging.