he repeated vaguely, with dazed eyes. He raised his hand to his head; Lindsay started forward, the revolver loose in his hand.
"Where did you get that pin?" he cried sharply. "Give that to me."
The man fingered the pin thoughtfully. "You're 'way off there," he said. "That's not—that's not—"
"Not one of your 'jokes'?" Lindsay's voice rang disagreeably. "I happen to know the contrary. I'll trouble you to hand it over. I'll soon know to whom it belongs."
Caroline, hanging over the sill, lost in talkative admiration of the Great Dane, was oblivious for the moment of the room behind her.
"It belongs to my son," said the man. There was a moment of silence. Outside the great hound whined softly.
"His name Barker, too?" Lindsay asked coldly, half rising.
"No, sir. His name is James Wardwell," said the man defiantly.
Lindsay sprang to his feet.
"That's a dirty lie!" he shouted. He stood
