pocket of his trousers. The garments fell from a hook, and dropped to the floor. As they did so something fell from them and rolled over, stopping at Tom's feet. He stooped to pick it up, and to his surprise he saw that it was a gold brooch. His wonder grew as he noticed that it was exactly like the one Ruth had described to him as missing, and similar in pattern to the one he had often seen her wear—an old-fashioned pin, heavy and massive In design.
"Thanks," began Boswell, holding out his hand for it.
Tom held it back. He glared at Boswell.
"Where—where did you get that?" exclaimed Tom.
"Well, I don't know that it's any of your affair," was the rather cool reply.
"Well, I intend to make it mine! Do you know to whom that pin belongs?"
"Yes, to me, and I'll trouble you to hand it over."
"Wait!" exclaimed Tom. "Wait, Boswell. That pin isn't yours, and you know it."
"Well, I like your nerve! Whose is it?"
"Ruth Clinton's!" blurted out Tom.
"Ruth Clinton's?" cried Boswell. "She never saw that pin. I—I intended giv—look here, Parsons, what business of yours is this, anyhow? I know you and Miss Clinton are"
