Then the trunk followed its mates.
"Anything more I can do?" he asked pleasantly.
"I should say not! I owe you something, I suppose?"
"Well, rather."
"How much?"
"Ten dollars."
"Ten dollars!" cried Miss Chalmers. "For what happened? After all
that-- Why, it's--"
She snapped her purse open and handed him a bill with an angry gesture.
In fact she flung it at him. Anything to be rid of him, she thought.
He pocketed the money with a chuckle.
"My name is Sam," he remarked as he stepped back into the boat. "Any
time you need a launch, why--"
"I'll know whom not to engage," said Miss Chalmers, finishing the
sentence.
The boatman laughed, started the engine, and headed across an open space
in the river. Miss Chalmers glanced about her with a sigh of weary
satisfaction. It was one o'clock, but she had arrived!
*CHAPTER II*
*PAJAMAED VULGARIANS*
That particular insular possession owned by Mr. Stephen Witherbee was,
indeed, a dark corner of the earth. It was also insistently quiet and
lifeless. Just which one of the insufficiently enumerated Thousand
Islands it was did not concern Miss Chalmers in the least, any more than
it concerns the reader. All she sought was shelter and a couch.
She walked the length of the little wharf and stared in among the trees
that came down to meet it. Somewhere beyond was a house she knew--a
house that contained Mr. and Mrs. Witherbee, Miss Gertrude Witherbee,
perhaps Mr. Tom Witherbee, and various other persons who constituted a
Witherbee house-party.
There was not the least doubt that they were all asleep. Miss Chalmers
could not hear a sound save the ever-diminishing _thump-thump_ of the
one-cylinder launch.
"Asleep they are, certainly," she observed aloud. "I've done a
ridiculous thing, of course. It serves me right for coming a day ahead
of time. That boatman--ugh!
"Where the house is I haven't the least idea. But I can't stay here. I
_must_ find a place to sleep. Perhaps--just perhaps--somebody is up,
after all."
She returned to the end of the wharf and surveyed her six trunks.
"They'll do until morning," said Miss Chalmers as she picked up her grip
and started in search of the Witherbee house.
There was a gravel path, beginning where the wharf met the shore, and
Miss Chalmers followed it. Even in the gloom of the trees this was not
difficult, for the gravel was white, and lay before her like a ghostly
streak. Besides, it crunched under the twenty-dollar shoes.
Miss Chalmers was displeased with herself. She felt foolish. Something
had gone wrong with her poise; something seemed to have been subtracted
from the considerable sum of her dignity. The world was not playing
flunky as usual. Her old austerity was there, perhaps, but it lacked
confidence and authority.
The path forked, and Miss Chalmers paused to consider. The house was
still invisible.
"Why does a strange path always fork when one is alone and in a hurry,
and particularly at night?" asked Miss Chalmers aloud.
There was no answer; so, after an instant of indecision, she took the
fork that led to the right. Naturally it was the wrong fork. It simply
had to be, under the circumstances. It brought her back to the shore of
the island, where a summer pavilion was erected on a rocky point.
She retraced her steps back to the fork and took the left branch of the
gravel path. In not more than two minutes it guided her to the edge of
a lawn. Beyond this she could see the house--a large, solid, black mass
against a background of trees.
"Not a single light!" she exclaimed impatiently. "It's
positively--_uncouth_!"
She crossed the lawn and paused again at the foot of a flight of steps
that led to a broad piazza.
"It's almost as if the place was closed," she commented as her glance
roved upward toward the windows. "But of course it's not. Oh, well!"
She ascended the steps, crossed the piazza, and found a push-button in
the framing of a closed door. She pushed and waited--but not long; she
was too impatient for dalliance.
Several times she pushed the button in rapid succession, holding her
thumb upon it for extended periods. Nobody came to the door, which
angered her anew. Then she realized that she herself could hear no
ringing of a bell.
"Out of order, of course," she said bitterly.
She rapped smartly with her gloved knuckles upon the paneling of the
door time after time until they ached. Then she dropped her grip, went
back to the lawn, and looked up at the house again. It slept calmly.
Miss Chalmers made a circuit of the Witherbee dwelling. Not a ray of
light filtered out of it from any side, not a sound--not even a snore.
She returned to the front door and rapped again. Then, she seated
herself in a porch-rocker and frowned.
"I absolutely will not shout," she told herself. "I am sufficiently
absurd as it is. I will not be laughed at!"
She placed particular emphasis upon the last thought, as if somebody,
somewhere, was displaying amusement at her plight. If there was one
thing Rosalind Chalmers would not for an instant endure it was mirth of
her own unintentional provoking. She was not a lady to be laughed at.
In the first place, she was too dignified, even to the point of a
certain severity in manner. Where she lacked severity she substituted
condescension. In the second place, she was too coldly handsome, too
tall, too slimly erect. In the third place, she was too
old--twenty-five. In the fourth place, she was a Vassar graduate. In
the fifth place, she was too rich. In the sixth place--
Oh, why continue? It is already plain that under no circumstances was
Miss Chalmers a lady to be laughed at, even by equals--to say nothing of
a common river-man.
Yet she knew exactly what would happen when she succeeded in arousing
the sleepers on Witherbee's Island. First, they would grumble and
stumble and rub their eyes. Then they would shuffle to a window or a
door and discover her. Then there would be surprise and hurry and a
scene. And then--then, when everybody was thoroughly awake--would come
the laughter. She reasoned it very logically and found no flaw in her
conclusions.
"I will not wake them," she decided. "I will get into that house
somehow, find myself a couch downstairs, and get my sleep. It's not
that I mind waking them up; not a bit. But I won't be--"
She left the murmured sentence unfinished, arose from her chair, and
walked briskly to the nearest window. The sash was either securely
locked or thoroughly jammed, like a parlor-car window. She could not
move it.
She tried the next window; the result was the same. A third window gave
her no access to the dark interior of Witherbee House. She vented her
annoyance in a sharp exclamation and turned the corner of the porch.
The next window rattled encouragingly in its frame. It moved half an
inch. She slipped the tips of her fingers under the sash, drew a deep
breath, and heaved valiantly. The window ascended abruptly and with a
clatter. And then--
A great bell clanged!
No decent, friendly, hospitable bell, but a raucous, brazen, mocking
gong, pounded upon at the rate of a hundred or so strokes to the minute
by a fiendish electric hammer.
The sound of the bell echoed in the gloom of the house and flung itself
boisterously through the open window into the astonished and dismayed
ears of Miss Chalmers. She fell back a step and raised her hands
protectingly in front of her.
"A burglar-alarm!" she cried.
The din was appalling. It seemed to grow steadily in volume. Miss
Chalmers was not truly frightened, but she was thoroughly amazed and
startled. She was incontinently hurled from her pedestal of calm
assurance.
For five seconds she hesitated. The bell boomed on. She stepped close
to the window, placed her hands upon the sill, and leaned inward. From
somewhere above she heard a heavy footstep, then a medley of sleepy
voices.
She turned and ran.
She was dimly conscious in her precipitate retreat that, mingled with
the clanging of the gong, there was another sound--a rattling of
something on the porch floor. But it was not a propitious moment for
investigation.
Around the corner of the porch she fled, upsetting a wicker table and
scattering its burden of magazines. From its resting-place at the front
door she scooped up her satchel. Down the steps to the lawn she leaped
recklessly and then across the space of level sward.
Her skirt was not fashioned for running. With one hand she swept it up
to her knees, a maneuver which added perhaps a knot to her speed. Give
her a fair chance and Miss Chalmers was an excellent runner. She could
even invest running with a certain stateliness and dignity--but not on
this occasion.
Somebody had left a rocking-chair on the Witherbee lawn. She had not
observed it when she approached the house, but now she fell over it. It
bumped her knee cruelly, in addition to depositing her at full length
upon the grass.
Within a second she was on her feet again, flaming with anger. She
groped for her fallen satchel, recovered it, and ran on toward the
shelter of the trees At the edge of the trees she paused and looked
back. Lights were moving in the windows of Witherbee House. She heard
voices, some shrill with alarm. Again she turned and fled.
Just why Miss Chalmers ran away from the haven of refuge she had been so
long in reaching she could not clearly have explained. She was flurried
in mind, yet not to such an extent as to dim the fact that her conduct
was quite illogical. For fifteen minutes she had been trying to rouse
the house; now that she had succeeded, she was in flight.
In among the trees she hesitated again. The simple and obvious thing to
do was to walk straight back and announce herself. After that she would
be in bed in ten minutes. But they might laugh. In fact, it was a
certainty they would laugh. The alarm, the silly panic of a resolute
lady, the chair on the lawn, her gown--oh, it was impossible. She ran
once more, dodging among the trees and praying that she might find a
path.
Presently she felt the gravel under her feet and followed the trail
until it brought her back to the wharf, where her trunks crouched like
black monsters in the faint light of the lantern. Here she paused to
recover breath while she listened.
Through the little wood that had once seemed so dense she saw a
glimmering of lanterns passing to and fro.
"I am _not_ frightened!" panted Miss Chalmers hotly. "I am merely a
fool! Yes--a complete fool! But they'll not find me--not now! Not for
anything in the world! I'll go back; I'll find some way. I _won't_
stay on this island. The whole thing is perfectly beastly and absurd!"
The moving lanterns among the trees seemed to be coming nearer. Men
were calling to each other. She could hear footsteps on the gravel path.
There was no concealment on the wharf, yet Miss Chalmers was determined
to be concealed. There could be no backing out now. She looked quickly
about her.
Close to the wharf, at the very edge of the water, she now observed what
looked like a boat-house. She sprang toward it and stepped out upon a
small float that was anchored in front of it to find herself barred from
refuge by padlocked doors.
The lanterns were now close to the wharf. Miss Chalmers had no time to
waste picking a lock, even if she knew how. She slipped around the
corner of the boat-house and flattened herself close against it, trying
desperately to breathe noiselessly.
A moment later there was a shuffling of feet on the wharf, then an
exclamation of surprise in a man's voice. Her curiosity urged her to
risk a peep. Very cautiously she advanced her head beyond the corner of
the building that screened her.
What Miss Chalmers saw shocked her. Three men in pajamas, each carrying
a lantern, were standing upon the wharf. Their feet were shod in
bedroom slippers. Two of them carried walking-sticks gripped tightly at
the wrong end, evidently intended to perform service as clubs. The
third had a revolver.
She was shocked, not because she regarded pajamas and bedroom slippers
as improper, but because they seemed so utterly common, so plebeian, so
lacking in anything that approached character or smartness or form--in
short, to the eyes of Miss Chalmers they were sheer vulgarity, even
though of possible utility. She shuddered a little.
One of the men she recognized; it was Mr. Witherbee. She was well aware
that Mr. Witherbee was stout, but not until now did she realize that he
actually bulged. It was the first time she had ever seen a fat man in
pajamas, and she was impressed with the fact that the effect was more
robust than artistic.
One of the other men was tall and blond, with a drooping mustache. His
pajamas were far too short in the legs and his bare ankles were
inelegant.
The other man had his back toward her. She thought he might be Tom
Witherbee. He looked more fashionable than the others. It was also he
who held the pistol, which, perhaps, gave him just a suggestion of
devil-may-care.
The three men were gravely regarding the six trunks. Miss Chalmers
caught her breath.
Too late now! She could never disappear from Witherbee's Island and
explain those trunks. Yet she knew this, too; she never, though the
heavens might fall upon her otherwise, would step forth and proclaim
herself to three men in pajamas.
Mr. Witherbee advanced to the nearest trunk and inspected it by the
light of his lantern.
"Well, what do you know about that!" he exclaimed.
"'Pon my word, I know nothing whatever about it, my dear fellow," said
the tall one.
"These are Miss Chalmers's trunks," declared Mr. Witherbee in a voice of
wonder as he examined another.
The young man with the revolver made an inspection of his own and avowed
that Mr. Witherbee was right. The tall one stroked his mustache and
said nothing.
"But she's not expected till to-morrow!" cried Mr. Witherbee. "How the
deuce did her trunks get here?"
"Must have sent them on ahead," observed the armed one.
"But who brought 'em? When? The boat didn't stop here to-night."
Mr. Witherbee stared at the trunks in succession and juggled one of them
as if to assure himself that it was real. All the time he was
muttering.
"Well, this isn't finding the burglar," remarked the man with the
pistol. "He's probably gone by now, anyhow. Ah-h-h--I'm sleepy."
Mr. Witherbee pondered the trunks again.
"I've got a theory," he said presently.
"Shoot."
Miss Chalmers winced, divining that this was slang.
"Why, it's like this," said Mr. Witherbee, putting down his lantern and
diagraming his remarks with his cane. "There's a prowler about these
islands--you know of that, of course.
"Well, Miss Chalmers sends her trunks on in advance. Some boat brings
'em down, probably after we're all in bed.
"This chap cruises around and spots the trunks. Then he comes ashore.
He finds the house dark. He makes up his mind that everybody has gone
away and that the trunks are waiting to be taken aboard the morning
boat. So he makes a try at the house. Burglar-alarm goes off--he gets
scared--runs like the Old Harry--hops into his boat--_an revoir_. How's
that?"
"By Jove, it's wonderful!" said the tall man. "By the way, old man, are
your ankles cold? Mine are."
"Accepting your theory, then," remarked the man with the pistol,
"whoever rang the burglar-alarm has already escaped, so we can all go to
bed."
"Clever as the deuce!" said the tall man.
"I don't suppose there is much more use in looking," admitted Mr.
Witherbee reluctantly.
(His ankles were not cold.)
"You don't guess he could have hid in the boathouse, do you?"
Miss Chalmers shivered.
"It's locked," said the armed one. "He wouldn't bother with the
boat-house. You can bet he's not on the island now. What'll we do with
the trunks?"
"Leave 'em until morning. It's not going to rain," Mr. Witherbee
observed. "But, by jingo! I'd like to get that fellow!"
"So would I. But what's the use now? Listen! The folks are calling. I
guess we'd better go back and tell them it's all over."
"All right," sighed Mr. Witherbee, picking up his lantern.
The trio in pajamas turned back toward the path. Miss Chalmers put her
head forward cautiously for another glance. She was just in time to see
the figure of the tall man disappear, his pajamas flapping
disconsolately about his ankles, his lantern swinging listlessly.
"They're worse than the boatman," she commented.
Not until the last sign of a light had disappeared, and only when she
could no longer hear sounds from the direction of the house, did Miss
Chalmers venture from her seclusion. She went back to the dock and sat
down on the string-piece.
"This is a fine state of affairs," she reflected. "Now I've _got_ to
say. I never thought about the trunks.
"But how will I ever explain? I'll die before I admit I set off that
burglar-alarm. I'll not only die, but I'll lie. I'll die lying. Some
time to-morrow morning I've got to announce myself.
"But how? I'm an idiot--but I won't admit that either.
"Why did I run? That's what I should like to know--why? I've been
behaving like a child."
Presently she shuddered, but it was not because there was a chill in the
air. She was thinking of pajamas.
"I shall never wear them again," she murmured. "Thank Heaven, I
brought--"
At this point her thoughts very naturally drifted to a consideration of
some place to sleep. She had no liking for camping out under the stars
if she could help it. She wanted a roof over her head.
Sneaking back to the open window in the Witherbee House was out of the
question; anyhow, it was probably shut and fastened by this time. She
wondered if there was a way to get into the boat-house.
Back she went, armed with the dock lantern, and began an inspection of
the lock. It was a solid-looking padlock, but Miss Chalmers thought the
staple through which it was passed showed signs of weakness. She looked
about for an instrument and finally found a stick that seemed as if it
might do.
The stick broke several times during the process of prying the staple
loose, yet she made headway. Under most conditions an impatient and
somewhat imperious young lady, Miss Chalmers was curiously persistent
when she set her hand to any mechanical task. She labored
uncomplainingly at the staple for fifteen minutes, and gave a satisfied
little nod when it fell loose from the woodwork.
The interior of the boat-house was not inviting. A rowboat and two
canoes were piled along one side, with a lot of loose gear, a collection
of ill-smelling paint-pots and some oars and paddles.
At the farther end was a pile of canvas. She tilted her nose slightly,
but did not retreat.
"It's a roof at any rate," she observed. "I'll sleep on the canvas.
Nothing can hurt this gown now. It's gone."
She put down the lantern, sat on the canvas, and slipped off her
twenty-dollar shoes. Then she lay down and attempted to convince
herself that the bed was comfortable.
It was an entirely laudable effort at self deception, but quite useless.
The bed was anything but comfortable. It had some pulley-blocks under
it, for one thing.
Nevertheless she became drowsy. This ordinarily delicious sensation
crept upon her with unwelcome quickness. She wanted time to think about
to-morrow morning. It might require considerable planning, she feared.
"Oh, well," she murmured in a resigned tone, "I guess it will come to me
better after I sleep a little."
Then she almost slept. The reason she did not quite sleep was an abrupt
volley of shots. She sprang to her feet with an angry exclamation.
"Haven't they stopped hunting me yet?" she snapped.
*CHAPTER III*
*MISS ACCESSORY-AFTER-THE-FACT*
Her initial impulse was to dash out of the boat-house, confront her
pursuers, and visit them with a merited rebuke for having disturbed her
rest. Not for an instant did it occur to Miss Chalmers that anybody
else's rest had been disturbed by her.
But she remembered that she was not yet announced upon Witherbee's
Island; that she would not, in fact, arrive until morning, so far as the
official statement was concerned. So she checked her rush and occupied
a wise half-minute in putting on her shoes.
Tiptoeing across squeaking boards to the open doorway, she looked out
and turned her head in either direction. Silence had followed the
shots. She could see no lights on the island. Everything was as restful
and somnolent as a lecture on metaphysics.
She stepped out on the little float, from which she could obtain a
better view of the wharf and the beginning of the gravel path. There
was neither sign nor sound of the pajama squad, facts that contributed
greatly to her satisfaction. Not a glimmer came from the direction of
the house.
The shots puzzled her. She was wide-awake now, and she was quite sure
she had not dreamed a volley. Pausing for a couple of minutes on the
float, she made her way noiselessly to the dock, where she stopped to
listen again.
"I know perfectly well I heard shooting," she remarked. "I'm not given
to imagining things. There!"
Four shots there were this time; she had not counted the first group.
Instantly she ran to the end of the dock and looked out across the
water. As she stared into the darkness there was another shot, preceded
some three or four seconds by a yellow flash.
"It's on another island," she told herself rapidly. "Can it be possible
that there are burglars about? Heavens! Suppose they really did come
here!"
She listened for more shots and watched for more flashes. Presently a
light showed again, but it did not come from the muzzle of a gun.
She knew it to be the white, steady beam of an electric torch. A moment
later another showed. Then they began moving in opposite directions. A
little after that she heard the faint bark of a dog. She glanced behind
her into the woods of Witherbee's Island. Nobody else seemed to be
paying the least attention to what was going on across the water.
Miss Chalmers's curiosity was unleashed and stalking from its lair. It
was possessed with a consuming desire. She found it dragging her along,
with little or no effort on her part to hold it back. Its enthusiasm
infected her. She, too--all the rest of her--wanted to know what was
going on out there in the river.
Curiosity is a subtly cunning creature. Almost before she knew it, it
guided Miss Chalmers to a St. Lawrence skiff, the existence of which she
had not noticed before. The skiff was moored to the wharf; it did not
take her more than two seconds to lower herself into it, cast off the
line, and pick up the two light oars that lay in the bottom.
"I might just as well," she remarked in extenuation. "It's out of the
question to sleep. Nobody will know anything about it. And--well, it
cannot be much more than half a mile."
She fitted the oars to the swivel-locks, swung the skiff around, took
her bearings from one of the electric torches, and fell into a long,
steady stroke. The boat moved lightly and easily. She found something
exhilarating in the exercise. She could not remember having touched a
pair of oars since she rowed with her class-crew at Vassar.
She rowed well. That, of course, was characteristic of Miss Chalmers.
Things that she could not do well, she did not do at all. For instance,
holding her temper; almost invariably she bungled that, so she had given
up trying. Besides, there is no particular reason why a rich, handsome,
and imperious lady should hold her temper if she happens not to want to.
For a quarter of a mile she rowed without pausing, then made another
observation over her shoulder. She was holding her course admirably, for
the lights on the land ahead of her were much nearer. Now she could hear
voices, particularly that of a man, who cursed a barking dog and then
did something to it to make it yelp.
"It's another island," commented Miss Chalmers as she rested a second
time, now not more than a hundred yards from the shore. "It's another
burglar-hunt, too. Oh, dear! I suppose it means pajamas."
It did. Somebody struck a match to light a cigar, and the brief
illumination revealed two men who were most palpably dressed for bed.
She allowed the boat to drift quietly while she listened. The match
burned out and the figures were hidden again, but she could hear their
voices distinctly.
"The dogs aren't worth a hoot," growled one of the voices.
"Seems like they ain't quite as noticin' as they used to be, sir,"
admitted the other.
"I gave them the scent, right where we found the footprints in the
flower-bed, but they didn't even seem excited."
"No, sir."
"Did you see him at all?"
"Not a sign, sir; nor heard him either."
"It's a deuce of a note," complained the first speaker. "I've got
watch-dogs and servants and locks on my doors and windows, and yet I
can't keep thieves out of my house."
"If only Mr. William was here, sir, we might--"
"Confound Mr. William! He's not here and he won't be here, so we've got
to do without him-- Listen! What was that?"
"I think that's James and Eliza hunting along the other side of the
island, sir."
"Eliza! Is she at it, too?"
"She stopped to dress, sir," explained the voice apologetically and
hastily. "She's awful particular about James, sir. She don't want
nothing to happen to him unless she's--"
"Never mind that. If she wants to make a fool out of herself, she may,
so long as she continues to get the washing done. We'll go on up the
shore until we meet them. But I suppose it won't be any use."
"Probably not, sir."
"Here, Duke! Where's that blooming dog now? Oh, well; let him go. I
suppose he's eating out of the burglar's hand."
The torch carried by one of the speakers began moving along the edge of
the island. Miss Chalmers was slightly bored. Being a watcher was not
nearly so exciting as playing the quarry. But she decided to follow.
One of the oars rattled in its swivel, and she heard the two searchers
halt.
"He's in a boat!" exclaimed the one in authority.
"I don't think it was that, sir. It sounded more like--"
"I tell you I heard it perfectly. Don't stand arguing. Come on! It's
too late; but we'll finish the round, or at least until we meet Tames.
Ouch! Great--"
The remainder of the sentence was blurred, yet high-pitched. A minute
later Miss Chalmers heard:
"If it was Patrick who left that lawn-mower standing out I'll ship him
off to-morrow. Why in blazes didn't you throw a light on it?"
"Sorry, sir. But you've got the torch, sir."
"Shut up! Come on!"
The men began moving again. Miss Chalmers calmly reached down and tore
a large piece of expensive goods from the bottom of her skirt. This in
turn she tore in halves. Then she carefully swathed the swivels.
When the oars were replaced they made a sound so soft that it could not
have been heard a dozen feet. Keeping her distance from the shore-line,
she followed the searchers.
The man who seemed to own the island began to talk again:
"He'd have had the silverware and the whole works if it hadn't been for
me. It's a pity I have to do all the hearing for this house. I don't
see why my servants can't have insomnia once in a while. What are they
paid for? _I_ have it, so I suppose everybody else thinks it's all
right to imitate the _Seven Sleepers_. You're quite sure he didn't take
any of the silverware?"
"Almost certain, sir. But I'll look again when we get back. Nothing on
top of the sideboard had even been touched."
"Well, it's mighty queer; that's all I've got to say. Except that I've
a good mind to shoot a couple of dogs to-morrow morning."
"Oh, sir--please--I wouldn't, sir. They'll probably do better next
time, sir."
"Next time! How many times do you expect this is going to happen, I'd
like to know? I tell you I'll shoot 'em!"
"But they're not mad, sir; and I think--"
"Mad! I know they're not mad, you idiot! But they'll be darn-well
provoked if I plump a couple of bullets into 'em."
Miss Chalmers rowed on slowly, her lip curled slightly to indicate her
contempt for the conversation. It seemed to her that the evening had
furnished nothing save a series of revelations of the incompetence of
man. Not a thing that any man had done within her ken that night but
she could have performed more efficiently herself, she reflected.
This was the stronger, the dominant sex, was it? With her shoulders she
made an eloquent gesture, which was lost upon the night.
Almost at the point of returning to Witherbee's Island was she, when a
yell from the shore caused her to turn her head swiftly.
"There he is now, by George! He's got a boat. Run! Head him off,
before he gets away!"
A dog began to yelp excitedly.
"Sick him, Duke! Sick him! Stop that yawping and grab hold!"
She heard a soft patter of footsteps along the shore, then the staccato
note of a gasoline engine.
"Lord! It's a motor-boat! There he goes! Hang that dog, he missed
him!"
A fresh volley of shots came from the island.
"Get the launch! Quick! We're almost at the boat-house now! We'll get
him yet!"
"Yes, sir, I'm after it."
The motor-boat that Miss Chalmers heard was exploding gasoline in
boisterous fashion. She leaned as far as she dared across the gunwale
of the skiff and tried to discern objects in the gloom.
It was difficult to distinguish anything save the dark bulk of the
island. But the gasoline motor was whirling furiously. Then there were
voices again.
"Got her cast off?"
"N-no, sir; not yet."
"For the love of Mike, hurry! He's underway now."
"There! All right, sir."
"Get forward and keep a lookout. Tell me which way to steer."
A second engine burst into action with a defiant roar. Miss Chalmers,
resting upon her oars, knew that a chase had begun.
It was rather exciting now. A burglar was being pursued, but she could
see neither the burglar nor the pursuers. Two engines were trying to
smother each other's din, with the result that their voices mingled in a
discordant bedlam.
Then a dark object passed within fifty feet of her skiff, ran on for a
hundred feet more, suddenly slowed down, and ceased firing. In closer
to the island, but still beyond her vision, the second boat was
clattering truculently, and the voices rose even higher.
"He's stopped! He's stopped! Spot him now! It's our chance!"
"Can't see him yet, sir."
"You've _got_ to see him! If you miss him you're fired! Why the blazes
do I have to be near-sighted?"
Miss Chalmers edged her skiff closer to the boat that had abruptly
paused in flight. She had a suspicion. A moment later she knew. A
half-suppressed exclamation reached her ears. The voice was one of
recent memory.
For several seconds she was irresolute. Far be it from her to interfere
with the long arm of justice or retribution, or whatever it might chance
to be. It was no business of hers to trip Nemesis. And yet--
Well, perhaps she would not have acknowledged that it was sporting
blood, but it was something singularly resembling it. She cared not a
whit for the burglar; he deserved his fate. Contrariwise, she cared
nothing whatever about the pursuers. They were entitled to no better
than they could achieve. But she _did_ care about something else.
A stalled engine was a perpetual challenge to her.
To some persons the joy of battle lies in overcoming fellow men, to
others in conquering the forces of nature, to still others in achieving
hard-won triumphs over poverty or riches or other forms of adversity or
perversity.
To Rosalind Chalmers, by some queer twist of her brain, it lay in
starting a balky engine.
She hesitated no longer. What she did was without reason; but she was
past that. Her fighting mood was uppermost. She laid to her oars and
put herself alongside the motionless launch with such violence that the
skiff rocked threateningly. Another instant and she was aboard.
The crouching figure of Sam, the boat person, arose from the cock-pit.
Simultaneously a long arm whipped out with all his weight behind it.
Miss Chalmers dodged.
"You fool!" she exclaimed wrathfully. "Here--hold the painter of this
skiff."
The boatman whistled shrilly, then chuckled.
"Well, if it isn't the master mechanic!" he said.
Not far distant in the darkness, the second launch was plunging
furiously onward, the man in the stern anathematizing his lookout.
"Thief!" hissed Miss Chalmers. "Strike a light here."
She was already bending over the silent engine.
"They'll see me if I do," said the boatman. "Best lie quiet for the
present."
"A light!" she commanded.
He obeyed, holding the match low in the boat as he lighted the
candle-stub and shielded the flame with his hand.
"You burglar!" she muttered contemptuously. "Where's your wrench?"
He reached under a seat and handed it to her.
"Hold that light closer--thief! Give me a hammer, too."
Fresh shouting reached their ears. The light in the cock-pit had been
seen by their pursuers.
"Starboard! Starboard, sir!" beseeched an anxious voice.
"I see him. Shut up! You ought to have spotted him before. Stand
ready now to make fast to him."
The boatman turned a glance in the direction of the voices and whistled
again.
"I guess I'd better swim for it," he observed complacently.
"You quitter!" cried Miss Chalmers. "Get that light closer.
There--hold it so! Oh, how helpless you are!"
The boatman's ears told him that pursuit was steadily drawing closer.
Miss Chalmers was doing something swiftly and mysteriously--just what,
Sam had no idea. She gripped and twisted something with the wrench,
then struck something else two smart blows with the hammer. A second
later she seized the rim of the fly-wheel in both hands and gave it a
vigorous turn. The engine buzzed noisily.
"There--you house-breaker!" she cried triumphantly.
The boatman took the tiller and blew out the candle.
"Much obliged," he remarked.
She dropped, panting, to a seat, and began to wonder what irresponsible
act she would next commit.
There were cries of dismay from the stern boat when the quarry was off
again, but there was no abandonment of the pursuit. In fact it was
enlivened by a pair of bullets, which struck the water not far from the
rejuvenated launch.
"Better get down on the floor," advised the boatman.
Miss Chalmers held her place.
Very calmly the boatman reached out, laid a hand upon her shoulder, and
twisted her off the seat with a single motion, so that she landed with a
bump on the floor.
"How--"
"Dared I?" he inquired. "Oh, I don't see any sense in running a chance
of getting plugged. That fool back there just might hit something."
She was in a white rage from the touch of his hand and for the moment
speechless. But she did not climb back on the seat.
Another shot sounded, but it went wide. The boatman took a knife from
his pocket and cut the rope from which the skiff trailed in their wake.
Miss Chalmers uttered a cry of despair at his action.
"We can't tow dead wood and expect to get away--not in this tub,"
explained the boatman.
"I--I don't want to get away!" she exclaimed.
"You don't?" There was genuine astonishment in his voice. "Then why in
Sam Hill did you start that engine?"
She felt there was no fitting reply, so said nothing.
Soon there was a new sound from the rear, or rather a jumble of
sounds--a shout of warning, a crash, a splintering of wood.
"There goes one of Mr. Witherbee's skiffs," commented the boatman.
"They ran it down."
The lady who sat on the floor made no comment. She had no compunctions
concerning the skiff, but she was suddenly alarmed over her own plight.
How would she get back now?
"He's gaining some," observed the boatman after a short interval. "I
told you I wasn't a speed-king."
Miss Chalmers's mind once more detached itself from her predicament.
She rose to her knees and stared out over the stern.
What the boatman said was true. The launch behind was now clearly
visible.
"At this rate he'll get us in about five minutes," added the boatman
after another inspection.
She made a dive for the engine and began tinkering with the spark. They
_must_ escape! It would be too humiliating, too utterly beyond
explanation to be caught now. She coaxed a few more revolutions out of
the engine.
It did not trouble her that she was trying to cheat the law of its prey.
She was wholly solicitous for the reputation and the dignity of Rosalind
Chalmers.
"We're doing better than eight, now," she said defiantly.
"We haven't got the trunks," he explained. "But I'll bet she can't go
nine."
Couldn't she? Miss Chalmers purposed to see. She mothered the engine
again, touching it here and there deftly and tenderly, adjusting a
screw, listening, adjusting again, doing a dozen things that the boatman
would not have thought of doing. The engine responded gallantly.
"That's the first time I ever heard it purr," he said, in admiration.
"You don't happen to be the inventor of that engine, do you?"
She ignored the question. She was too busy trying for that nine miles.
But still the stern boat gained--not so rapidly as before, yet
consistently.
"I can't do any more," she said desperately. "You've got to do the rest.
Do you understand? You've _got_ to!"
"Yes, ma'am," answered the boatman. "Will you take a chance in a mean
channel?"
"Anything!" she cried.
"That's funny," he chuckled, "for a lady who doesn't want to get away.
I was going to take the chance anyhow. Sometimes I make it and
sometimes I miss it. I've been aground there six times. This is the
first time I ever tackled it at night."
Miss Chalmers looked over her shoulder and saw that they were rapidly
approaching land.
"You're running straight ashore!"
"Maybe--if I don't hit it."
By hitting "it" he meant a channel, into which they plunged a moment
later. It was very narrow and very dark, and it served to make two
islands where the casual observer thought there was only one.
"If we don't pile ourselves up this is going to be about as clever a
thing as I ever did," remarked the steersman genially. "If we do hit
anything you'll find a life-preserver under the starboard seat. In any
event I'll lay you three to one they don't follow us."
She did not take the bet; she was too intent upon watching the rocks
that rushed by almost within reach of her arm.
"I said it would be a pretty clever stunt," observed the boatman a
moment later. "Here we are in open water again. No fear; they won't
try it."
He swung the tiller sharply. The launch swerved and began to follow a
new course.
"Is that Mr. Witherbee's Island?" demanded Miss Chalmers, pointing.
"That? No, indeed. We've been going away from Witherbee's."
"Take me there at once."
"You mean to say you really want to go back?"
"Take me there! Do you hear?"
"Why--yes, if you say so. Only, I took you there once and you wouldn't
stay put. What brought you out, anyhow?"
"My own affair," answered Miss Chalmers shortly.
"Meaning I'm not to ask questions. All right. I'll take you back. You
needn't worry about that--ma'am."
"Worry!" she flashed. "Do you think I'm worrying? Do you think I'm
afraid--just because you are a burglar?"
"Well, to tell you the truth," answered the boatman slowly, "I've got an
idea you're afraid I'm not a burglar."
"But you are!"
He shrugged his shoulders and devoted his attention to the course. It
was a roundabout way to Witherbee's Island. The voyage was finished in
silence. She did not know whether she was sorry or pleased when she set
foot upon the lonely dock for a second time.
"No charge this time," observed the boatman. "It's on me."
She turned upon him fiercely.
"Let me warn you," she said, "that if you are caught--"
The boat was under way again.
"Well, good night--or rather good morning--Miss
Accessory-after-the-fact," he called back.
*CHAPTER IV*
*QUESTIONS--AND A CLUE*
Dawn gently touched the eyes of Miss Chalmers and awakened her. She sat
up briskly and surveyed the interior of the boat-house, at first with
bewilderment, then with quick understanding.
"I remember," she nodded.
Then, glancing at her gown, she added:
"It's not likely I could forget. This is the day I arrive. I must
hurry."
She reached for her grip, opened it, took out a ring full of keys, and
arose from her canvas couch. A brief reconnaissance from the doorway of
the boat-house assured her that Witherbee's Island was probably sleeping
late, making up a lost hour.
She ran swiftly to the wharf, selected without hesitation one of her six
trunks, unlocked it, and spent two minutes with its contents. Then she
retreated to the boat-house.
Fifteen minutes later she reappeared with a bundle under her arm,
returned to the trunk, stowed her burden away, shut down the lid and
locked it again.
Miss Chalmers was a different lady. Her gown, her gloves, her hat, her
shoes were all spotless. She carried a sunshade. Her hair was smoothly
gathered in a low and luxuriant coil. If a Fifth Avenue shop had
suddenly appeared in the background you would have wagered she had just
stepped out of it.
"I think I'll take a little walk," she said.
She did not seek the path, but chose to follow the line of the shore in
a direction opposite from that of the house. The morning air was
virile. She breathed slowly, deeply, purposefully. She was a very
healthy young woman.
"I have just arrived," she told herself. "I came down on a very early
boat. I wonder if there _are_ any early boats--regular ones. If not, I
hired one.
"And it's all perfectly true, too. I did get here this morning; it was
past midnight. My trunks came ahead of me. How they came to be sent
down last night I don't know; I'm not supposed to know.
"H-m! That's not quite so truthful. However, it will have to do. Of
course, I know nothing about anything else--if they mention it.
Particularly the pa-pajamas. I never saw them; I never heard anything;
I never went anywhere.
"I don't think it's lying--exactly. If it is, so much the worse for the
truth. It's necessary."
She followed the shore for several minutes and then, when the walking
became difficult, retraced her steps. Out across the river she could
see the island where the second burglar-hunt took place. Occasionally
she scanned the water in other directions, half expecting to see her
boatman engaged in futile fumbling at his engine. But there was no sign
of him.
"To think--a thief!" she exclaimed. "I employed a thief! I might have
known he was a thief when he charged me ten dollars! And twice I
started the engine for him! I can't imagine why I did it--except the
first time. I wouldn't be here now if I hadn't done that. It cost me a
new gown, but-- Oh, well! What's a gown?
"Such a brazen thief, too--he accepted what I did as a matter of course!
Bah! A dirty spark-plug! The thing is without excuse."
Miss Chalmers had reached the wharf again. Now she paused hastily and
stood rigid, watching a figure that stood on the end of it. The man,
who was tall and rather square in the shoulders, was dressed in white
flannels. He was standing on the string-piece, his back toward her, his
eyes searching the river through a pair of field-glasses. From right to
left his vision ranged, while he stood with the military erectness of a
bronze statue.
Once, as his head turned, she glimpsed the end of a tawny mustache.
Then she knew him for one of the pajama trio. Involuntarily she looked
at his ankles, and breathed a soft sigh of comfort when she saw that
they were well covered.
Eventually, becoming tired of watching the watcher, she stepped quietly
out upon the wharf, advancing to the nearest of her trunks and seating
herself upon it. She was still studying the observer, wondering whether
to speak first or to wait for him to turn, when there came a swift
change in the tableau.
[Illustration: She stepped quietly out upon the wharf, advancing to the
nearest of her trunks and seating herself upon it]
A bell rang loudly.
The tall man on the string-piece dropped his glasses into the river and
whirled about. Then, remembering the glasses, he reached for them, a
full second after they disappeared.
He reached too far for the purpose of equilibrium--not far enough to
retrieve his loss. His body swayed outward. He clutched at the air; it
slipped easily through his fingers. Then, folding up like a jack-knife,
he disappeared from Miss Chalmers's vision.
The last thing she noted was a pair of surprised blue eyes, looking at
her with unblinking steadiness. She was not at all astonished that the
splash was a loud one, considering the manner in which he made his
plunge.
The bell still rang blithely.
Miss Chalmers sprang down from her trunk and seized her grip, which lay
almost at her feet. She had had enough of bells. Snatching it open,
she turned back the alarm lever on a nickeled clock, then snapped the
grip shut again. After that she resumed her seat and waited.
Over the string-piece a head appeared. Its owner observed her solemnly.
"I--er--I beg pardon, you know," said the head. "But--er--by Heaven!
did you hear a bell, madam?"
Miss Chalmers shook her head.
"Odd as the deuce!"
His shoulders came into view and his arms gripped the string-piece.
"Odd as anything in the world," he added, as he continued to stare at
her. "I could swear there was a bell, you know."
"I don't hear it," she said.
"Nor I, madam. It--er--seems to have stopped, you know. But there was
one--oh, I'm sure! Unless, of course, you say there wasn't. I may have
been mistaken. But--oh, it's frightfully odd!"
Miss Chalmers chewed her under lip until the pain made her wince. She
had never before seen a long, yellow mustache drip water at both ends,
and she was amazed at the quantity.
"If you've finished tubbing, why not come completely ashore?" she
inquired presently.
"Why--er--thank you. I believe I will."
The rest of him appeared above the string-piece.
"Did you get your glasses?"
He stared at her for half a minute longer.
"I supposed, of course, you were going after them," she added gravely.
"So I was, by Jove! I quite forgot."
The tall man in the wet flannels turned around, stepped upon the
string-piece again, poised himself, and then shot head downward into the
water, cleaving it as cleanly as an arrow. Miss Chalmers was too
surprised to move. She merely waited.
A quarter of a minute, then half a minute elapsed. Then, just as she was
minded to run to the end of the wharf and look for him, a hand
containing a pair of field-glasses appeared, followed immediately by its
owner.
"Awfully good of you to remind me, don't you know."
Miss Chalmers was thinking swiftly.
"I don't know whether he is a fool or not," she told herself. "I'll be
careful."
The tall man stroked his wet mustache and looked down at his flannels.
"Hope I didn't frighten you, I'm sure," he observed.
"Not in the least. You--interested me."
"Awfully kind of you to say that--awfully kind, Miss--er--er--"
"Chalmers."
"Ah--Miss Chalmers! We were expecting you--but not so early."
"I took an early boat."
"Why--er--the first boat down doesn't get here before ten, I believe,"
he said, staring again. "And it's not more than--"
"Not more than three minutes after six," interrupted Miss Chalmers.
Then she flushed and frowned.
The man took out his watch and held it to his ear. He looked at the
dial.
"Still going and-- By Jove, you're right, Miss Chalmers. What amazing
guesses you Americans make!"
It was not a guess, however. Miss Chalmers's alarm clock, now ticking
softly in her grip, had been set for six exactly. But she could not
explain.
"We came so early," she said hastily, "that I decided to wait until
somebody was up. I've been walking around the island, Mr.--Mr.--"
"I beg your pardon. Morton is the name."
He bowed deeply.
"As I was saying, Mr. Morton, I took a short walk after the boatman put
me ashore, and--"
"Boatman, you said?"
"Why, yes; certainly."
"A chap with his own boat, was it?"
"It seemed to be his own boat," answered Miss Chalmers. "It's not very
much to own, however."
Mr. Morton appeared to be interested.
"Now--if I'm not too inquisitive, you know--would he be a man with a
beard?"
"He would; in fact, he was."
"Hum!"
Morton fell silent for a little, then turned to the river, raised his
glasses, and made another survey. Miss Chalmers was becoming curious.
Mr. Morton faced her.
"If you'll pardon me again, Miss Chalmers, would his name be Sam?" he
inquired.
"He said it was. But why?"
Mr. Morton was silent again. Once more he scanned the St. Lawrence, now
shining under the risen sun.
"Um--er--" said the dripping one as he abandoned his scrutiny. "Why?
Did you ask why, Miss Chalmers? Why--er--really, no reason at all, you
know. I've seen him--that's all. Just occasionally, you know. Really
no reason at all, I assure you."
Miss Chalmers was assured there was a reason. She did not, however,
pursue the inquiry. She told herself that it would be unseemly; what
she meant was that it might be embarrassing.
Mr. Morton seated himself on the string-piece and allowed his glance to
encompass her baggage.
"We saw your boxes last night," he remarked after a study.
"Indeed?"
Miss Chalmers spoke cautiously.
"Quite a surprise, you know, to Mr. Witherbee and all of us. We were
looking for a rascal--a scoundrelly thief, by Jove--and all we found
were your boxes. They're tremendously prompt with luggage in this
country, aren't they? Why, they get it there ahead of you!"
"Sometimes," she admitted. "Did I understand you to say something about
a burglar?"
"A burglar," he confirmed. "He rang the alarm, you know. Woke us all
up. Rotten nuisance. Hunted all over the island. Found nothing--except
your boxes. The bally bell woke the whole house."
He looked rather fixedly at Miss Chalmers.
"Awfully odd about that other bell, wasn't it?" he observed. "Quite
startled me, you know. Made me drop my glasses. Must have been thinking
of burglar-alarms."
"It was probably an echo of the alarm," she suggested.
"Really now, could it have been? Odd idea that. And you might be right,
you know. You might be terrifically right, Miss Chalmers. They say
your echoes travel tremendous distances in this country."
Miss Chalmers was vaguely uneasy. She felt that she was suspected as to
the six-o'clock bell. She could not be sure, but he stared rather hard.
Nor was she reassured when Mr. Morton coupled it in his memory with the
ringing of the midnight chime in Witherbee House.
Perhaps it was natural enough to make the association; they were both
bells, and both were abrupt and startling. But--well, she wondered if
the man in the wet flannels was really a clever person.
"Are there many burglaries here?" she asked.
"I can't speak for the other islands, of course," he replied. "But this
was the first for Mr. Witherbee. Fine chap, Mr. Witherbee. I'm just a
guest, you know."
"Was anything stolen?"
Miss Chalmers asked the question perfunctorily.
"Upon my word, not a thing! Rather a joke, you know, too, because he
left a clue."
"A clue?"
She sat up straight on her trunk.
"Seems like a clue, at any rate. You see--"
There was a heavy crunching on the gravel path, and the voice of Mr.
Witherbee called:
"Well, Rosalind Chalmers! And at this hour of the morning. You and
your trunks seem to make a specialty of mysterious arrivals."
Mr. Witherbee greeted her effusively and surveyed her from head to foot.
"Same girl, same girl," he commented admiringly. "Style--class--eh, eh,
Morton? Oh, I beg your pardon! Have you met Mr. Morton?"
Miss Chalmers indicated that an introduction was unnecessary.
"I was so early, I thought I'd better wait down here for a while," she
explained.
"Nonsense! Why didn't you come up at once? Ring the bell--bang on the
door--do anything. We don't mind. Do we, Morton? Why, man alive,
what's happened to you?"
Mr. Witherbee was regarding the white flannels with wide eyes.
"Mr. Morton dropped his glasses overboard and went to recover them,"
said Miss Chalmers.
The man on the string-piece shot a swift glance at her, then nodded
confirmation.
"Huh!" said Mr. Witherbee, as he marveled at the wetness of his guest.
"Just for a pair of glasses, eh? You're a queer cuss, Morton. By the
way, Rosalind, did he tell you about the burglar?"
"He's just finished telling me."
"Fine note! Tell you all about it by and by. This is your grip, is it?
You must come straight up to the house. Mrs. Witherbee'll be
delighted."
He lifted the grip, grasped Miss Chalmers cordially by the arm, and
started up the wharf. Then he stopped suddenly. A perplexed expression
came into his face. Suddenly he cocked his head on one side and
listened.
"Hear anything?" he asked Miss Chalmers.
She shook her head.
"I do," he affirmed. "Something clicking."
He listened again, then raised the grip and applied his ear to it. Miss
Chalmers flushed.
"Please let's hurry," she said, urging him on.
Mr. Witherbee laughed.
"Clock, eh? I couldn't make it out at all."
She did not venture a glance at the guest, who remained behind, even
when Mr. Witherbee called back:
"Better change those clothes, old man. Early breakfast to-day."
Mr. Morton remained sitting on the string-piece, looking after them with
expressionless eyes.
Mrs. Witherbee was a sunup riser, like her husband, and she greeted her
new guest with open arms.
"Everybody will be down presently," she said. "My, how wonderfully fine
you look! How do you manage it--at such an hour? I suppose I'm a
fright. Well, no wonder--this morning. Did Stephen tell you--the
burglar? Oh, it was a terrible scare! I'm so glad, my dear, you were
not here. It would have upset you frightfully."
Miss Chalmers, standing on the porch, glanced across the lawn and saw an
overturned chair.
"Things like that do upset one," she murmured.
"I should say they did!" exclaimed Mrs. Witherbee. "I'm afraid I'll
never feel safe on this island again. I'll always be lying awake,
waiting for that alarm to go off. Really, I'd feel safer with it taken
out, Stephen."
"Nonsense," said Mr. Witherbee. "Why, it scared him away, didn't it?"
"And scared the rest of us almost to death. I can't see any economy in
that, I must say. I suppose, though, we should be thankful we're alive.
Shall I show you your room now, Rosalind, or will you wait until after
breakfast?"
"I'll wait," said Miss Chalmers.
Mrs. Witherbee stepped into the hall and called:
"Gertrude!"
"Yes, mother," answered a voice from above.
"Rosalind is here."
"I'll be down in a jiffy."
"And, Gertrude!"
"Well, mother?"
"Bring down what we found after the burglar left, dear."
"All right."
Mrs. Witherbee returned to the porch to find Miss Chalmers staring at
her apprehensively.
"We've got a clue," she bubbled. "It's the strangest thing in the
world. I suppose if you simply have to have a burglar, the next best
thing is to have a clue. Stephen thinks it may lead to a capture. Do
you still think you'll send for detectives, Stephen?"
"We'll see; we'll see, my dear."
Miss Chalmers walked to the porch-rail and steadied herself.
A clue!
It seemed she had never heard a word that sounded so sinister. A clue
to the burglar! She shivered a little.
"Rosalind, you're positively chilly!" exclaimed Mrs. Witherbee, slipping
an arm around her. "Run, Stephen, and tell Mary to hurry the coffee.
It's this morning air, my dear. You'll get used to it in no time."
There was a quick step in the hallway, and Gertrude Witherbee rushed out
upon the porch. Miss Chalmers returned the embrace, rather
perfunctorily. She was thinking of clues.
"Here it is, mother," and Gertrude tossed an object to Mrs. Witherbee.
"Our clue!" said the lady of the island, holding it up for inspection.
Miss Chalmers was looking at her own bracelet.
*CHAPTER V*
*THE PLOT CURDLES*
"Why--why--"
She checked herself and reflected swiftly. She must not--she could
not--claim it.
"Why," faltered Miss Chalmers weakly, "what a curious bracelet!"
"Isn't it, though?" exclaimed Mrs. Witherbee, holding it up so that the
light played upon the dull gold. "That's what all of us said. We're
having a time trying to decide who will keep it--that is, of course, if
nobody claims it. Gertrude is crazy about it; Polly Dawson wants it; I
fancy it tremendously myself."
"May I see it?" asked Miss Chalmers.
She gazed more sadly than curiously at the bauble Mrs. Witherbee dropped
into her palm.
"Notice the carving," urged Mrs. Witherbee. "Did you ever see anything
so odd?"
"It's very odd," assented the owner dully.
"And not a jewel in it!"
"Not a jewel," echoed Miss Chalmers, shaking her head.
"Gertrude and I have been wondering where in the world it was purchased.
We both want one. But there isn't the sign of a maker's mark; it doesn't
even say how many carats."
The artistic soul of Miss Chalmers was in revolt. Maker! Carats! There
was something shockingly coarse in the suggestion. How little they
understood! Nobody in the whole world knew the name of the artisan who
fashioned it, nor ever would know. He went to his peace five thousand
years ago. There were no carats in those days; not for this workman.
For he made the thing for a princess, and he made it of pure gold.
Nowhere, unless in some undiscovered tomb in Egypt, was there anywhere
its mate. Weighed in the scales of trade, it might have brought fifty
dollars as metal. To Miss Chalmers it was a thing beyond price.
She knew little of its history save this: Only two women in the world
had worn it. One was a princess, daughter of some forgotten Pharaoh.
It was upon her wrist when they opened the tomb. The other woman was
Rosalind Chalmers.
Just how Reginald Williams came into possession of it Miss Chalmers
never knew, but he had brought it to America for her. And she had worn
it with a pleasant sense of satisfaction in the fact that the bracelet
had merely been transferred from the arm of a dead princess to a living
one. Miss Chalmers, rightly enough, had an excellent opinion of
herself.
Reggy Williams thought she wore it for him. It was neither kind nor
worth while to tell him his mistake. The reason she wore it had partly
to do with the Egyptian princess and partly with the fact that it was
unique and beautiful.
Now, as it lay in her hand, she experienced a sense of dismay. She
could snap it about her arm, of course, and then explain--explain that--
Of course she could _not_! No; that was out of the question. Not after
all she had told them that morning.
Into Miss Chalmers's mind flashed the memory of a sound that had reached
her ears, even in the tremendous din of the Witherbee burglar-alarm. She
recalled it as a rattling noise, but had given it no second thought in
her panic. The discovery of her bracelet in the possession of her hosts
supplied an exasperating explanation. She asked absently:
"You say the burglar dropped it?"
"Right on the porch where he had opened the window," said Mrs.
Witherbee.
"Tom says it was quite a little distance from the window, mother,"
interrupted Gertrude.
"It was on the porch, at any rate," continued the hostess. "We think he
had just stolen it from some other island. It's not likely a man would
be carrying a thing like that around for any length of time.
"Tom found it while they were hunting with the lantern last night.
We're going to make inquiries, of course; but, to tell you the truth,
dear, we're just hoping a little that the owner won't be found. In that
case we'll keep it."
"You mean I'll keep it, mother," said Gertrude.
"Well, Polly wants it, too, my dear. Probably the best way will be to
send it to the city and have copies made. Then we can each have one."
Miss Chalmers shuddered.
"We've all tried it on, but I think it fits me best," asserted Gertrude.
The owner felt dizzy. It had been tried on--defiled!
"You can wear it for a while, if you like, Rosalind," said Gertrude
generously.
"No, thank you," answered Miss Chalmers as she returned the bracelet to
Mrs. Witherbee.
Her voice was flat and faint.
After that Tom Witherbee joined the group and the tale of the midnight
alarm was spun again. Then came Polly Dawson, short, plump, and
light-headed--both ways, for she was blonde--and Polly told it all over,
but in such different fashion, and with such a completely new set of
facts that it became quite a new story.
Afterward a few others came straggling down--the two Winter girls,
Fortescue Jones, and a dull-looking youth named Perkins, of whom Miss
Chalmers had never heard. And presently Mr. Morton, rearrayed, made his
second appearance that morning. He bowed again very formally to the new
guest.
It was a dull breakfast for Miss Chalmers. Everybody except herself
babbled incessantly about the burglar, the bracelet, and the hunt by
lantern-light.
The trinket of a princess was now upon Polly Dawson's arm, she having
beseeched Gertrude to let her wear it during the forenoon at least. The
owner eyed it gloomily and made plans. Even though it had been
desecrated, she did not propose to abandon it to utter vandalism. She
did not even intend that any vulgar modern craftsman should make copies
of it.
When the moment was opportune, Miss Chalmers proposed to steal it. Of
course she could never wear it again in the presence of the Witherbees
or any of their guests; but she would possess it at any rate.
Breakfast was served on a broad porch at the rear of the house, which
was the Witherbees' dining-room for all meals when the weather was fine.
It was not yet finished when Miss Chalmers saw something as she glanced
beyond the railing that fascinated her.
She stared fixedly, then brought her glance suddenly back to the table
and furtively examined the faces of her hosts and fellow guests. After
that she looked over the railing again. If she grew a shade paler,
nobody appeared to observe the fact; nor did any one notice she had
become restless.
After a minute or two she rose and walked toward the steps. They
descended to a lawn that was broken with shrubs and flower-beds and
paths.
"Where away, Rosalind?" called Gertrude.
"I want to see the garden," she called back.
But instead of making directly for the garden she followed a course
closely parallel to the porch, which brought her to a pathway that led
from a rear door of the house to a small outbuilding that served as a
summer kitchen.
"Wait! Stop, Rosalind!"
She did not seem to hear, but stepped upon the path.
"You'll ruin your shoes!" cried Mrs. Witherbee.
"That concrete was just laid yesterday. It's soft." Miss Chalmers
looked down at the path, then took a step forward as if to verify.
Still unsatisfied, she tested the path once, twice, thrice, with her
immaculate shoes. Then she turned and looked up at Mrs. Witherbee.
"Why, how stupid of me!" she exclaimed. "It is soft, isn't it?"
She moved toward the porch, treading again upon the slightly yielding
surface. Then she stepped back upon the grass.
"I'm so sorry," she murmured. "I'm afraid I've marked your path."
She paused to study the footprints. There were nine distinct
impressions in the concrete. One was slightly deeper than its mates.
"They won't notice that little difference," she reflected. "But I hope
to Heaven nobody took the trouble to observe that I stepped on the path
only eight times."
Then she wandered off into the garden, with a remark upon the
unexplained magnetism that wet paint, particularly when so labeled,
exercises upon meddlesome fingers.
(_Moral_: In order to cover your trail be the first to discover it--and
then multiply.)
"It's rather exacting work," thought Miss Chal--
Wait a minute! This eternal "Miss Chalmers" is tiresome. We've known
her for at least twelve hours; we're going to know her much better.
Nearly everybody else is calling her "Rosalind." Why stand aloof?
"It's rather exacting work," thought Rosalind, "this business of
arriving at unconventional hours and then making believe that everything
was thoroughly conventional. If they don't stop talking about clues I
shall go mad."
If there was one thing that particularly bored Rosalind it was
discussion of a topic plunged into with undisguised relish by Mrs.
Witherbee, when that good lady joined her in the garden and deftly
maneuvered her beyond the hearing of the others.
"Is it seventeen now, my dear, or eighteen?" asked Mrs. Witherbee with a
knowing little chuckle.
"Seventeen--or eighteen?" puzzled Rosalind. "I don't understand."
She did, however, because Mrs. Witherbee always approached the subject
from the numerical angle.
"You know very well, my dear. Do not pretend. I thought the last one
was the seventeenth, but Gertrude is sure he was the eighteenth. It was
Mr. Williams, wasn't it?"
"Oh, please!" protested Rosalind.
"Oh, please?" echoed Mrs. Witherbee, hugging Rosalind's arm. "Oh,
shucks, you mean! Why shouldn't we talk about it? Everybody else who
knows you talks about it. Why shouldn't I?"
"But--but it's so intimately my own affair," said Rosalind, annoyed.
"It's more than your affair, dear. It's the affair of seventeen or
eighteen perfectly nice young men--I wish to goodness I could remember
the exact count! Seventeen or eighteen eligible men--all ready to marry
you if you say the word."
"All!" exclaimed Rosalind in a shocked tone. "Why, Mrs. Witherbee!"
"Well, you know what I mean," declared Mrs. Witherbee. "Of course you
wouldn't marry them all. But it could be any one of the seventeen or
eighteen. Now, couldn't it, Rosalind?"
Rosalind sighed, not because she was either romantic or pensive, but out
of sheer despair.
"I presume it could be," she admitted.
"Oh, you heart-breaker!" chided Mrs. Witherbee confidentially.
"I'm not!" declared Rosalind stoutly. "There isn't a broken heart among
them. Their hearts are all perfectly sound and serviceable. They're
not only air-cooled, but water-jacketed, and not one of them ever had a
misfire on my account."
"Rosalind! What in the world are you talking about?"
"Oh, well, please let's not talk about it any more. I can't stop them
from asking me, can I?"
"No, but-- Why, some of us wonder if you ever will be married!"
Rosalind shook her head wearily.
"Oh, I suppose I'll be married some day; most women are. Meantime,
what's the use of considering and plotting and planning, or even
bothering about it? When a girl wants to get married she can do it--any
time. There's nothing mysterious or unprecedented about it. It's been
done several times, I believe."
"You're so cynical, Rosalind."
"I'm not--not in the least. I'm merely sane. Listen, now! Whose voice
is that? You seem to have callers."
"It sounds like Mr. Davidson," said Mrs. Witherbee, listening. "He's
one of our neighbors. Shall we go and see?"
They walked to the front of the house, where a group of persons stood in
a circle around an elderly man who talked volubly.
"Come and listen to this," advised Mr. Witherbee, beckoning. "Davidson
had a thief last night, too. Same one, probably. Miss Chalmers, let me
present Mr. Davidson--one of our island neighbors."
Mr. Davidson bowed briefly, then resumed his recital in a voice that
Rosalind remembered quite well.
"We thought he was all alone at first. He started up his launch, and
then he had a breakdown. Thought I had him sure then. But, by jingo!
Do you know there was another fellow lying out there in a rowboat? He
was keeping watch, I suppose. The second chap climbed into the launch,
and they managed to get things started again.
"Even then we'd have had 'em in a fair race. He cut loose his rowboat
after a while, and we smashed into that; we didn't stop to pick up the
splinters. That delayed us a little, of course.
"But he put one over on us by slipping through that channel that splits
Houghton's Island. I wouldn't take a chance on it. By the time we went
around the island he wasn't in sight."
"A pair of them, you said?" asked Mr. Witherbee.
"A whole gang, likely enough; but we saw only two. Don't know whether I
hit any of 'em or not."
"Anything stolen?"
"Now, there's the queer part," affirmed Mr. Davidson. "Not a blessed
thing, so far as we can discover, unless it was something out of the
library that we haven't been able to locate as yet.
"He seemed to have spent all his time in the library, as nearly as I can
find out. He had a lot of books out on the floor. Perhaps he thought
we hid things behind them. We can't find that he did anything except
mess with the books."
If Rosalind was afire with curiosity she did not betray the fact.
Outwardly she maintained the frigid poise that had been the despair of
the seventeen or eighteen.
"Well, from your story," commented Mr. Witherbee, "he got to your place
after he visited us. He had hard luck here; he lost something. Who's
got the bracelet? Here, Polly! Show it to Mr. Davidson."
Polly held out her arm.
"If he hadn't visited us first I would have thought probably he stole it
from your place," said Witherbee.
Mr. Davidson glanced at the bracelet and shook his head.
"Haven't got any junk like that in our house," he declared. "Never saw
it before."
Rosalind flamed with resentment, but remained silent. Junk!
"We've got to organize; that's all," declared Witherbee.
"It's a cinch something's got to be done," growled Davidson. "I tell
you, there's funny goings-on around this place. Earlier last night, for
instance. We were coming down the river in the yacht when somebody
hailed us from a small boat. One of 'em--sounded like a woman,
too--wanted help. The other one--a man--didn't want any help. Seemed
to be having a row among themselves, so I didn't butt in."
Rosalind was too bewildered to analyze the relation of this episode to
what happened later. She merely made a mental note of the facts for
future consideration.
A man in overalls approached Mr. Witherbee and touched his cap.
"One of the skiffs is gone, sir--the new one," he said.
"Then he did steal something, after all!" exclaimed Witherbee. "Isn't
that the devil now? I suppose that was the skiff you ran down,
Davidson."
"I suppose so," said Davidson gloomily. "Sorry."
"Oh, that's all right. Don't bother. But, say, Davidson, you ought to
do something for your own protection. Put in a burglar-alarm like ours,
for instance."
"Burglar-alarm!" snorted Davidson. "What do I keep dogs for? And what
good are the dogs, either? I threatened to shoot 'em last night. I'm
not sure but I will, even yet. That rascally nephew of mine spoiled
those dogs. They've been mooning around the place ever since I shipped
him off to New York. By Judas! I'd bring him back if it wasn't for the
fact that I'm getting good reports about him. Witherbee, he's actually
making good! Had a letter from Hastings & Hatch only this morning.
He'll be a regular banker some day, they tell me. Would you have ever
thought that?"
"I never would," admitted Witherbee.
Rosalind wanted to slip away and think. She wanted to be undisturbed,
so she might put together the pieces of the puzzle, which seemed to have
been jigsawed into hopeless confusion.
What she wanted most to know was just where she fitted into it. If
there was to be serious burglar-hunting, if clues were being scattered
about indiscriminately, she was considerably concerned as to where they
might all lead.
When Mr. Davidson had apparently arrived at the end of his facts and was
turning to comment and speculation she detached herself from the group
and wandered off to the summer pavilion, which she had first found
during the course of her exploration in the dark hours.
But she was not to be left alone. Mr. Morton, stroking his blond
mustache, strolled in pursuit.
"Funny, by Jove! Isn't it, now?" he said. "Everybody chasing somebody,
you know, and nobody catching anybody. I say it's confounded strange.
What's your theory, Miss Chalmers?"
"I never theorize," said Rosalind shortly.
"Oh--ah--I see. Hum! Not a bad plan, that, either; not at all bad.
Saves one a whole lot of bother, I should think."
"Decidedly."
"Oh, yes, a lot of bother," he went on aimlessly. "But we can't all do
it successfully, you know. Deuced difficult not to think about
anything."
Rosalind's caution was uppermost. This drawling Morton person was
somewhat enigmatic. She could not tell exactly why, but she was ill at
ease.
Presently he seemed to remember something, for he turned toward the
river, of which the summer pavilion commanded a sweeping view, took his
field-glasses from his pocket, and devoted himself to another of those
surveys at which she had surprised him in the early hours. Rosalind
watched in silence.
"Not a sign," he observed after a long scrutiny.
"Of what?"
"I-- Oh, I beg your pardon. Did not know I had spoken--really.
Nothing at all, Miss Chalmers; nothing at all."
"Do you commonly look for nothing?"
"Had me there!" he exclaimed. "I suppose one doesn't really look for
nothing, even if one expects nothing. Why--I--I was just looking for a
boat; that's all. Nothing of importance, I assure you."
Rosalind's thoughts reverted to Sam, her burglarious boatman. What did
this man know about him? Why had he questioned her so down on the
wharf?
She was framing a guarded inquiry when Polly Dawson gurgled into the
pavilion.
"Oh, Mr. Morton! I thought we were to play tennis this morning," she
cried.
"Right you are!" he assented--with surprising alacrity, Rosalind
thought. "Upon my word, I'd forgotten, Miss Polly. Awfully kind of you
to look me up. You'll excuse me, Miss Chalmers? Or will you join us at
the courts?"
"I think I'll excuse you," said Rosalind, deliberately.
He stared for a brief instant.
"Why, yes; yes--of course. Awfully kind of you, too."
Polly Dawson had him by the arm and was insistently urging him in the
direction of the courts. As they passed out of the pavilion Rosalind
caught another glimpse of her bracelet. She gritted her teeth.
"Now, let's see just where I stand," she murmured to herself, and began
checking off her thoughts on her fingers.
*CHAPTER VI*
*"PALS!"*
A dirty gray boat, quite too large for a skiff, was being slowly
propelled against the current with the aid of a pair of oars. The man
who furnished the power was talking torridly to himself, to the boat,
and to the oars, with occasional digressions in which he addressed
himself to the river, the waning day, and the Goddess of Luck. He
perspired a great deal more than he progressed.
Once he paused to wipe his forehead, an occupation which gave him
opportunity to survey a nearby shore. Upon that shore he observed a
lady walking. The lady was alone. The boatman smiled. He believed he
could easily understand why the lady was alone, provided her tongue had
not been paralyzed. He remembered it as a tongue that fended people
off.
As he looked at the slowly moving figure it came to a halt. At the
distance and in the dusk the boatman could not be sure that she was
looking at him, yet he rested on his oars, waiting.
He saw something wave--a scarf or a handkerchief perhaps. He smiled
again behind his shabby beard. Then he headed his boat toward the
shore.
Not until he was close to the island did he turn his head, and then with
the remark:
"Did you call me, ma'am?"
"What's the trouble now?" she asked sharply as a rejoinder.
"No trouble at all that I know of."
"Why are you rowing?"
"Oh! You mean about the boat? Why, my batteries have gone dead."
"How long since you replaced the cells?"
"I don't know. Maybe a year."
Rosalind Chalmers uttered an exclamation of disgust.
"I wish to be taken somewhere," she said. "It's important."
"I'll do my best to row you. How far is it--Europe?"
"I do not care to be rowed," she said. Her tone would have frozen
mercury.
"Well, I'm headed for Clayton," he observed. "To buy some batteries.
It's a long, long way; but if you'll be here until I get back I'll be at
your service."
Rosalind considered briefly.
"If I find a set of cells for you," she said, "may I employ you for an
hour or two?"
"Surest thing you know, ma'am."
"You'll wait here?"
"I'll not budge."
"Don't come to the dock," she warned.
"No fear."
She disappeared among the trees at a brisk walk, while the boatman edged
his craft closer to the shore, made fast to a shelf of rock, and
prepared to smoke. Twice he chuckled, once broke into a low laugh, as
he sat in the stern of his launch, and waited.
As the dusk thickened he lighted a grimy lantern. Its dim, yellow rays
illuminated the cock-pit, and his eyes fell upon a book that lay on the
floor. He reached for it, and picked it up, and began a casual study of
its pages.
There was one page, however, to which he reverted at frequent intervals,
finally devoting his undivided attention to a study of it. He was thus
engaged when a light footstep caused him to drop the volume.
The lady was standing within a few feet of him, a bundle in her arms.
"Catch it!" she commanded.
It unrolled itself as it reached his arms, and half a dozen dry cells
clattered to the floor of the cock-pit. The wrapper that contained them
was a light silk shawl. Almost simultaneously with the bundle Rosalind
herself was aboard.
Sam, the boatman, picked up the nearest cell and examined it.
"Where 'd you get them?" he asked, looking up at her.
"None of your business," said Rosalind calmly. "I suggest that you put
them to work at once."
He turned to the box that contained the dead batteries, disconnected the
wires, and tossed the useless cells overboard. Then rather clumsily he
began wiring the new cells into place.
Rosalind, seated opposite, watched the performance with impatience, but
said nothing until he had nearly finished. Then it was:
"Don't you know better than to connect two positive poles?
There--see--between the fourth and fifth cells."
He grinned without meeting her eyes and made the necessary change. Very
quickly after that the launch was headed into the river, moving without
the aid of oars.
"Nothing like having the master mechanic aboard," observed Sam as he
refilled his pipe.
"Never presume to address me in that manner again," said Rosalind,
turning swiftly upon him and drawing her skirt closer to her ankles.
"All right--Miss Chalmers--ma'am."
They ran on for several minutes in silence. Then he inquired
indifferently:
"Which way did you say you wanted to go?"
"I didn't say. But"--her arm pointed across the river--"you may take me
in that direction until I tell you further."
"That's Rockport, on the Canadian side," he observed as he altered the
course. "That place where you see the lights."
"Very well; head for it."
The launch moved onward for fifteen minutes, only the steady exhaust of
the engine breaking the silence. The boatman smoked steadily and
devoted the chief part of his time to a study of his passenger's
profile. She seemed to be thoroughly oblivious of his presence.
Abruptly, when Witherbee's Island was a good two miles astern, she
leaned forward and switched off the spark.
"This will do," she said.
Sam made a cursory observation of their position, which was midway in
the broad Canadian channel. The nearest island was probably a mile
distant.
"I desire to talk to you," she remarked, turning a calculating pair of
eyes upon him. "The reason why we came here is that I did not care to
be interrupted."
He nodded.
"I think I may as well tell you," she added, "that I have a pistol with
me."
"Well, it might come handy if we meet anything," he admitted, not a
trace of surprise in his voice.
Having reached this initial point in their conversation, Rosalind
paused. She was perplexed as to the best way to begin. She was a
little worried; but he must never suspect that.
A long afternoon hour of study over certain events in which she had been
an actor since her embarkation at Clayton the night before had convinced
her that it was highly desirable to know something more concerning this
common person, who made such poor work of his avowed occupation as a
boatman. Yet that was not exactly it, either; what she most wanted to
know was something concerning the plans and intentions of this person in
case certain contingencies arose.
"Your name is Sam, I believe?" she asked suddenly.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Sam what?"
"Oh, Sam anything. Whatever you say; I aim to please."
"You live here?"
"Hereabouts, ma'am."
"Of course you are a thief."
"You've said that before," he remarked placidly. "You said I was a
burglar and a house-breaker, too."
"But you are!"
"Am I?"
Rosalind had no patience with people who fenced, but she checked her
temper for the moment.
"After what I observed at an early hour this morning," she said, "I
cannot see that there is any doubt of it. You entered and robbed--or
attempted to rob--Mr. Davidson's house."
"Well," he said slowly, looking up at her, "I don't happen to be on the
witness-stand. But I might remark that I didn't enter or attempt to
enter Mr. Witherbee's house at any rate."
She flushed angrily, but she had learned something.
"Then you spied," she said.
He made a non-committal gesture.
"It's a matter of no importance," she added hastily. "I believe you
understand that I am a guest at the Witherbees'."
"Of course," he assented. "I expect you explained the whole thing to
them this morning."
She looked at him narrowly, but his face was impassive behind its beard.
Nevertheless, she had a disquieting feeling that he suspected she had
not explained anything--and did not care to explain.
"But you were simply a plain intruder at Mr. Davidson's," Rosalind went
on.
"I haven't admitted it, ma'am."
"Oh, why quibble about it?" she exclaimed.
"All right, then; we won't quibble," he answered, after a second's
thought. "We'll go to it a little bit straighter. I'll say this: I did
land on Mr. Davidson's island. That'll be enough for a while--except
this: I wasn't working alone."
"You mean, there was somebody else who--"
"Always," remarked Sam confidentially, "when there's a house-breaking to
be pulled off--that is, 'most always--a man doesn't work alone. He has
to have one pal. If he does the inside work, his pal sticks around
outside, doing lookout duty, and to help make the getaway. It's one of
the most important parts of the job. Now, whatever I did or didn't do
at Davidson's last night, the fact remained that I needed my pal a whole
lot when it came to making a quick duck."
He paused and studied her, a faint twinkle in his dark eyes.
"You mean--"
Rosalind's voice was trembling.
"I mean that my pal started an engine that I couldn't have started in a
year," he added, complacently.
"You--you villain!"
"Ma'am?"
"You unspeakable scoundrel!"
Rosalind had risen to her feet. Her hand crept to a pocket in her
sweater.
"You hit on a new name that time, ma'am."
"You dare to say," she exclaimed in an unsteady voice, "that I was in
any way associated with--with--whatever you did at Mr. Davidson's?"
"Well, now, I haven't said so exactly. Only just try to look at it from
the jury's angle."
Rosalind choked and sat down. Her fears--fears that she had been trying
to smother all afternoon--were realized. This was blackmail!
The boatman continued to smoke, unruffled. There was silence for a full
minute.
"I suppose we're all through talking," he observed finally.
"We are not!"
Rosalind's tongue was loosed again.
"What you have just hinted at is despicable, wicked--depraved! It's
beyond belief. You are contemptible enough to take advantage of an
entirely innocent situation to make trouble--for a woman! Of course,
with you it's entirely a question of money. Therefore, how much?"
"How much for what?" he inquired mildly.
"For what! As if you didn't well know--
"Never mind; I'll put the thing plainly, if you wish. Through a series
of unfortunate circumstances, I engaged you as a boatman last night.
Through a second series of circumstances it became impossible for me to
announce my arrival at Mr. Witherbee's in the usual manner. Through
still another series I had the misfortune to become involved in an
affair which you very well know was none of mine.
"You are a thief; I am not. It happens, however, that I cannot afford
to have my name in any way, either directly or indirectly, connected
with the escapades of a burglar. The probability is, if you continue to
remain in this neighborhood you will be captured. If that event does
occur, you undoubtedly have it in mind to drag me into the affair.
Therefore, how much?"
"How much to leave you out of it?"
"Exactly!"
He considered the proposal for a little.
"How much'll you give?" he inquired cautiously.
Rosalind was nonplused. She was not versed in the payment of
hush-money. She had no idea whatever concerning the usual rates of
compensation.
"I haven't more than about fifty dollars with me," she said.
"Fifty, eh? Um! Well, now, suppose I say I don't want anything,
ma'am?"
"You mean--"
"I mean if I took it, why, it would seem like cutting loose from a pal.
And I don't--"
"You beast!"
"Another new one," he commented blandly.
"I have a mind--"
She paused midway in the sentence. She did not know what she had a mind
to do, to tell the truth. Rosalind was completely dismayed. He meant to
hold this thing over her; to terrorize her; perhaps--she turned cold at
the thought--to attempt to employ her in some new lawless raid!
"Don't worry, ma'am," he said as if reading her thoughts. "I won't say
a word to anybody. Lord! I wouldn't tell on you; I just _can't_, you
see. That being the case, what's the use of my taking your money in
that fashion and only creating bad feeling between us?"
The boldness of the fellow's assumption sickened her.
"Please allow me to pay," she said coldly.
He shook his head.
"We'll let it stand the way it is. I never squealed on a pal yet," he
replied.
"I cannot remain under an obligation, no matter how unjust it may be,"
she declared in a firm voice. "I insist upon paying."
"There's no obligation, ma'am--not the least. The account's all square.
I did the job; you made the getaway. It's a fifty-fifty proposition.
I'm not doing you any favor."
Rosalind was in a white fury. Her fingers curled around the stock of
the little automatic in her pocket, although she knew quite well she
would not employ the weapon. This creature called her his--pal! Called
her--a Chalmers--by a vulgar name from his underworld! And she was
helpless!
"You may take me back," she commanded suddenly.
"Right!"
He started the engine, swung the boat in a wide circle, and laid a
course for Witherbee's Island. They had covered half of the return
journey before she spoke again. Then:
"I may as well warn you that they are preparing to make a thorough hunt
for the thief, and that the residents are about to organize, and
probably to employ detectives."
"Thank you, ma'am."
"You may act accordingly or not, as you choose."
"It's very kind of you," he said humbly. "I'm sure you show the right
spirit, ma'am. That's the way it ought to be between--"
Rosalind turned upon him.
"Don't you ever dare to employ that word to me again!"
"Oh, all right," he sighed. "I just meant to be neighborly."
It was some minutes later when she observed:
"I might add that one of the gentlemen staying with Mr. Witherbee is
already on the watch for you."
The boatman looked surprised.
"He uses a pair of glasses to keep track of you."
"What's his name?"
"Mr. Morton."
An exclamation from the steersman.
"Morton--the Englishman?"
"Evidently you know him."
"N-no; I don't exactly know him. But I know who you mean. Tall man,
yellow mustache?"
Rosalind nodded.
"Hum!" said Sam reflectively. "How long has he been at Witherbee's?"
"I haven't the least idea."
"He's spoken of me, has he?"
"Yes."
"What did he say?"
"Why, nothing really; except that he asked some questions in order to
identify you and said he had seen you. I told him you had brought me
down."
"Did you tell him when I brought you?" inquired the boatman.
"Well, I said--or perhaps I let him infer--that you brought me down this
morning."
Sam laughed quietly.
"That's an alibi that might do nicely for both of us," he commented.
"Much obliged. Did he mention my name?"
"He knows that you are called Sam," said Rosalind shortly.
"I see. Quite a chap, isn't he, don't you know?"
The voice of the boatman was rather satirical.
"And I'll tell you something else," she continued. "Mr. Davidson is
convinced there is some queer work going on here, and he mentioned a
boat hailing him last night while he was out in his yacht."
"So you've found out it was Davidson's yacht, then?"
"I have."
Sam seemed to find cause for gentle mirth.
"I think I can now understand," she added, "why you refused to let him
help us. Even a burglar may have a certain delicacy about accepting a
favor from his intended victim."
"That might be true," he admitted.
They were approaching Witherbee's Island when Rosalind's glance fell
upon a book that lay open on the floor of the cock-pit. Idly she picked
it up and glanced at the cover. It was a copy of Hamersly's "Social
Register."
For an instant she stared at the title with astonished eyes. Not that
the volume was strange to her; far from that. Rosalind Chalmers was
thoroughly acquainted with this most exclusive of all publications that
list the names of the families who are really and truly entitled to
enter the social holy of holies. What amazed her was the presence of
the volume in such an uncouth environment. She turned to the fly-leaf.
Thereon was written in a bold hand: