"I'd singe it down a bit if I was sure it wasn't inflammable," he added.

"But I'd hate to turn myself into a torch. Besides, I might lose it

all, and that won't do--yet."

Then came to the boatman, as often to other persons, an idea. He turned

to his tool-box and extracted therefrom an instrument which he regarded

for an instant with doubtful eyes. Gritting his teeth, he faced the

mirror once more.

You can bale out an ocean with a thimble if you have sufficient time and

persistence. A task relatively similar is that of trimming a beard with

a pair of wire-cutters. Sam set himself to it.

Compared with the operations of the discarded knife, it was happily free

from serious pain. But it was mournfully slow. A wire-cutter is

designed to sever one wire at a time, so its jaw, though powerful, is

short. To the boatman it seemed an almost impossible feat to make the

instrument cut more than one hair at a time.

He toiled doggedly, bending close to the little glass and twisting his

head into such positions as promised the most favorable opportunity for

attack. Patience was finally rewarded with a certain degree of

expertness. The beard slowly diminished in length to an extent visible

to the naked eye. Whether he was really achieving a Van Dyke he did not

dare to guess, but he was at least bringing it to a point at the chin,

and was cropping away some of its shagginess on the cheeks.

The mustache was a distinct problem. Twice he caught his upper lip

between the jaws of the cutter and--swore.

"There!" he exclaimed at last. "If anybody objects to the effect let

him say so at his own risk. Before I'll trim any more hair with a

wire-cutter I'll let the blamed thing grow until--yes, even until Carrie

Catt is President!"

Stripping himself of a gray flannel shirt, he next performed ablutions

in a tin water-bucket, alternating soap with sand as he tried to reduce

the grime that clung to his hands.

Again the wire-cutter came into play as he manicured his nails. Then

there was a new period of torture when he drove the comb through locks

that had not been raked for weeks.

To dress was the simplest part of all. He arrayed himself briskly in

broadcloth and linen, even submitting patiently to the iron grip of the

collar that encircled his neck. His quarters were so cramped that he

sat most of the time in order to avail himself of the services of the

mirror; but this was an inconvenience that gave him little concern. The

worst was over, he reflected, until--

"For the love of Mike!"

That remark was in celebration of the discovery that he possessed every

garment of a gentleman save a tie.

He viewed his image with a look of despair. His raiment fitted him

astonishingly well, as nearly as he could judge. He had managed to

button his collar into place without soiling it. The shirt-front was

still immaculate. But no tie!

"You need a nurse," he told himself glumly. "What are you going to do

now?"

Yet even at this catastrophe he would not acknowledge himself beaten.

"I suppose it's possible," he muttered, "to go ashore as I am and

sandbag a waiter, or even a guest if I can catch one alone. But that

has risks, and I don't feel like taking too many to-night. Any kind of

a tie would do; I wouldn't be particular. Come! Get clever now and

invent something. Remember the wire-cutters!"

Twice he made a search of the pockets of his clothes, faintly hoping

that one of them might conceal the article he lacked, but his quest was

unrewarded.

"Why does a man have to wear a necktie?" he raged. "And if he feels

that he positively must wear one is he really a man? Talk about your

slaves to fashion! You never see a necktie on a lady--and you never see

a gentleman without one!

"Yes, I said 'gentleman.' Just a while back I was a man, now I'm a

gentleman! Being one of those things, I have to have a necktie. I

can't see that a man's clothes make anything out of him except a

confounded coward."

Speech ceased suddenly as he spied a white object lying under a seat

directly in front of him. He reached for it and held it up to the

light.

It was a tiny and very thin square of linen, embroidered at the edges.

As he brought it close to his eyes he became aware that it exhaled the

faintest possible perfume.

"Bless the ladies!" he exclaimed. "One of 'em--I don't know which--has

left me a handkerchief. We'll see what can be done."

With careful yet ruthless hands he tore the linen square into four

strips of equal width. These he folded once lengthwise. Next he

knotted them together, end upon end. The result was, at least in the

semidarkness, something that resembled the necktie of a gentleman.

He grinned at himself triumphantly as he fashioned a bow out of the

ends, after passing the strip of linen about his neck. There were

frayed edges here and there, but they did not count against the general

effect. It was a tie!

The boatman rose to his feet and glanced shoreward. Faintly there came

across the water the quick, inspiring notes of a fox-trot.

"Time to hurry, I guess," he observed as he slipped forward and set the

boat loose from her mooring.

As the _Fifty-Fifty_ edged her way gently to the float he stepped out

briskly and made the painter fast to a ring. Not until he reached the

head of the gangway did he give a thought to a possible difficulty.

Then it was forced upon him suddenly.

"Your ticket, sir," said an attendant deferentially, holding out his

hand.

"Ticket?"

"Admission is by card, sir."

"Oh--of course." The boatman smiled graciously and waved his hand

toward the float. "One of the other gentlemen in my party has the

cards. He will be up directly."

The attendant bowed and Sam passed onward. He did not stop to note that

the man at the gangway, after a period of reasonable waiting, peered

down at the float and discovered it to be quite empty of persons; nor

that the same functionary immediately took a few futile steps in the

direction whither the lone guest had gone and strained his eyes in an

endeavor to locate the man without a card.

Sam had anticipated these things. He had mingled with the trees and was

approaching the hotel, not by the broad path, but by a circuitous route

across the lawns.

He paused as he neared the broad veranda and studied the throng. It was

an interval between dances; some of the guests were descending the steps

to the lawn, which was overhung with paper lanterns. He saw no familiar

face.

"We'll wait till the band plays," he murmured, "and then we'll give it a

try-out."

Furtively his fingers groped their way to the tie and found it bravely

in place. He shook out his cuffs, smoothed his shirt-bosom, and

examined his glistening pumps. Thoughtfully, even a little anxiously,

he stroked his beard. Then--

The band again. The boatman strode forward jauntily and made his way to

the crowded porch.

*CHAPTER XIV*

*WHAT THE PAUL JONES DID*

Rosalind had been sitting most of them out, instead of dancing them.

There was not the least doubt the crowd was "mixed." Besides, after one

experiment with Morton, one with the Jones boy, and a mere recollection

of other dances with Reggie Williams, Rosalind found that sitting out

was the nearest approach to having a good time.

Incidentally it furnished odd minutes for reflection, for it was

possible to despatch her squires upon errands and thus obtain solitude.

Her fertility of invention, when it came to errands, was quite

astonishing; at the fact that all of the errands were useless, her

conscience was pricked not at all.

She was a woman with a problem that challenged her. Back at the

Witherbees' they gave her no time for cogitation; there seemed to be a

universal obsession that somebody had to entertain her.

And Rosalind was a difficult person to entertain. She chose her own

amusements and she resented having diversion thrust upon her.

It was not at all a matter of hardship--save to others--for Rosalind to

be exceedingly untractable and unpleasant, both in manner and speech and

the general loftiness and disdain of her bearing. If ever there lived a

lady who needed, for the good of her soul and her conduct, to be clubbed

briskly on the head by some conscientious caveman, dragged by the hair

to his domicile, and set to pounding corn between two stones, that lady

was Rosalind Chalmers.

And she was beginning to wonder if some such proceeding was not actually

under way. The caveman, of course, was Sam. She knew he was not a real

caveman, even, perhaps, of the kind that possess a veneer of

civilization; yet he behaved like one.

His manner toward her was shocking and uncouth, as well as without

explanation. He had contrived to involve her--she did not admit any of

the contriving to be of her own--in a series of vulgar and embarrassing

events; and she felt with a keen degree of uneasiness that he proposed

to capitalize her misfortunes or misadventures in a manner as yet

undisclosed and therefore peculiarly to be dreaded. Who he was, what he

was, even why he was, Rosalind did not know.

Had she been free to ask questions and to conduct a systematic

investigation perhaps something might be learned. But necessity, by

which she really meant the veiled threats of the boatman himself, bade

her be cautious.

In truth, Rosalind for once in her life was timid, although she would

have perished rather than acknowledge it, even to herself. It was no

physical fear, awakened by a dread of something that might happen to

herself. Rather it was a more or less abstract apprehension, yet none

the less poignant because of that fact.

It shaped itself into the idea that in some manner, and perhaps at some

remote time, something would be done or said or even whispered that

would bring into ridicule the Rosalind Chalmers who was known and

recognized only by the fixed and inexorable standard of Hamersley's

"Social Register." Not for all her wealth and her distinction would she

be unmasked before her fellow denizens of the book!

The hotel-dance, therefore, while it forced her elbows to touch common

clay, had a measure of consolation in giving her moments of solitude.

She wanted to grapple with her problem. She did. It proved elusive and

slippery and tireless. Worse, it grinned at her.

Yet Rosalind was game. Only once had fortitude failed her, and she

blushed with hot shame when she thought of that unhappy time--the time

during which she sat ten feet above the ground and yielded to the

humiliating weakness of begging for release from a captivity that

resulted directly from her own curiosity. That was an affair of bitter

and vengeful memory; she had not even begun to pay off the smallest

fraction of the score.

Tom Witherbee came to claim her. She had the bad grace to sigh as she

rose. She hoped he would not step on her feet, but she was not

optimistic; for the Jones boy, who would not have been picked by the

casual observer as ah awkward person, had displayed the appalling

accomplishment of stepping on both her feet at the same time, and doing

it with no apparent physical effort or acceleration of breath.

They were hurrying swiftly across the floor, Rosalind trying to decide

whether Tom Witherbee danced like a frog or a rabbit, when somebody blew

a shrill whistle. With an abrupt apology she found herself released by

her partner.

Then something horrible happened. She was a link in an endless chain of

persons who had joined hands and were boisterously whirling in an

undulating circle, like children playing "London Bridge."

Rosalind had heard of such things. In some places they called it the

Paul Jones; in others it had equally undescriptive names. But by

whatever term it was always the same; it meant changing partners every

time a fiend blew a whistle--taking pot-luck with the crowd.

Another shrill toot sounded. The men began weaving in and out to the

right, the women to the left. Rosalind was driven onward remorselessly

by the necessity of saving her heels from being stepped on. She did not

look like a lady who enjoyed being among the peasants and humble

villagers. Her jaw was set at too grim an angle.

The whistle blew again at an instant when Rosalind's left hand was

grasped firmly by one knight of the white shirt-front, while her right

had just been seized by another. The signal, she knew, meant another

partner. She wavered; it seemed like a chance to escape.

The captor of her left hand whirled about and stretched forth his arms.

It was a fatal and short-sighted maneuver, for in doing so he released

her fingers. Then with compelling force Rosalind found herself drawn

into a firm grip by the person who still retained her right hand. She

was dancing again.

It happened so swiftly that her half-formed intention to flee from the

dance was never carried into execution. She was angry at herself, at

Tom Witherbee, at the whole undignified affair.

And yet--this man could dance! She knew he was a stranger, although she

had not even glanced above the second button on his shirt. Beyond doubt

he was a vulgarian--one of the countless herd. But he could dance!

For the moment her irritation gave way to surprise. She had not

expected this--after Morton and the Jones boy and Tom Witherbee. Here

was a man who did not step on her feet, who did not employ her as a ram

to batter his way through the swinging crowd, who did not crush her in a

bearlike embrace, and who did not persistently fall out of time with the

music.

He danced; he was neither a laggard nor a race-horse. He respected the

functions of the band. To Rosalind it was like being rescued from a

trampling mob and expertly piloted into a path of ease and safety and

perpetual rhythm.

A common villager, perhaps; yet she yielded to the temptation. She also

danced. And when Rosalind Chalmers really wanted to dance she was

capable of attracting the eye and the envy of a Pavlowa. She was even

conscious of a pang of regret that it would be so brief, for the fiend

with the whistle would soon be playing his killjoy tune. But it was an

oasis at least; one tiny, bright spot in a desert of clumsiness.

Rosalind half-closed her eyes and abandoned herself to the sway of the

music. She was almost enjoying herself. He was not in her set, of

course; yet there was a distinction about his dancing that seemed for

the moment to lift him to that exalted plane.

She dreaded the whistle; it meant unknown terrors--perhaps even the

Jones boy, who was circling near her with his arms full of a large lady

in pink.

The ominous blast sounded.

"Please, if you don't mind--"

Rosalind marveled to find herself speaking, then checked her tongue and

flushed.

A second later and she was marveling again, for her partner had

understood. They were opposite one of the big French windows that led

to the porch. As easily as if the maneuver had been rehearsed they swung

through the opening and whirled away from the crowded room.

She glanced back and glimpsed another merry-go-round of couples, fated

to be presently resolved into hopelessly mismated pairs. But Rosalind

and the man who could truly dance went on and on, down the porch, still

in the thrall of the rhythm that was so spirited and compelling.

"Thank you," she said.

He made no answer, save a quick pressure of her fingers. It was this

silent acknowledgment of his gratitude that awakened Rosalind. Her

fingers had, it is true, been pressed before, when she was taken

unaware; but never by a stranger. She now remembered the pedestal she

occupied in the world. She glanced upward.

For several seconds her vision remained fixed upon the most

extraordinary necktie she had ever seen.

It was filmy and semitransparent. Also, it was ragged, frayed and

rumpled. But--and this was its really amazing feature--it was marked

with her own exquisitely embroidered monogram!

Her feet halted abruptly. She flung herself backward out of the arms of

Sam, the boatman. He was smiling benignly.

"This--this--"

"Has been a great pleasure," he supplied, but the bow that accompanied

the words was slightly satirical.

Rosalind stood gasping and angry.

"You dared!"

"Yes, ma'am."

"You deliberately planned--"

"Sure I planned it. A man's got to do some figuring in this world if he

wants to get anything."

She stared at the outraged handkerchief that graced a neck about which

at that moment she would willingly have passed a rope. This creature

had danced with her. She had been in his arms! And she had been seen

there!

"I had to break into that dance without a partner," he explained

lightly. "It was the only way to get you; to horn in and take a chance.

I knew there wasn't any use asking you for a dance."

Her eyes blazed. Her spirit was raging, yet her wits had not deserted

her. Perhaps they had not been noticed after all. The room was crowded

and most of the dancers were heavily engrossed with their own woes.

Chance might have been kind; she would soon know.

Meantime it was an atrocious risk to stand there talking to him. Yet if

she fled she knew not what the man might do. Probably he would follow.

"I wish to talk with you," she said with sudden resolution.

"That'll be another pleasure."

"But not here!"

"Well, there's, a lot of good talking-places down on the lawn," he

suggested.

She nodded grimly.

"Come along," he said cheerfully. And the creature offered her his arm.

She affected not to notice the insult.

"Better take my arm--ma'am. It's customary."

She walked beside him, but did not touch him.

"We'll look more like a regular couple if you do, ma'am."

Still she paid no heed to his advice. He halted at the top of the

steps.

"If you don't take my arm," he announced, "I'll grab you and shoot you

right back into that dance, ma'am."

Trembling with anger, she took it.

He led her down the veranda-steps and out among the lantern-lit trees.

They walked slowly and in silence for a minute, until Rosalind felt she

was safe from possible observers at the hotel.

Then she whipped her hand from his sleeve and drew a pace away from him.

Carefully she measured him with a glance which rested longest upon the

monogramed tie.

"Now I wish to know exactly what this means," she said sharply.

"It means just what happened," he answered, smiling.

She shook her head. She knew better than that, and she feared even

more.

"Is this what you meant--in that note?"

"You mean where I said, 'Just wait'?"

"Yes."

"No, indeed; this is just a sort of extra, thrown in. When I said,

'Just wait' I meant it. Time's not up yet--just wait."

He grinned.

"Then I demand that you explain what it _does_ mean."

"Why, I told you what it meant, ma'am. It meant that I wanted to

dance--with you."

"Never!"

"But you're unjust to yourself. Honest, that's exactly what I came for,

and it's exactly what I've done. And if you'll only let me have one

more dance"--a hesitation--"I'll do almost any thing in the world for

you. Yes, I'll give you a free ride in my launch."

Rosalind shuddered.

"You came here for another purpose," she said.

"I see it's no use trying to make you believe," sighed Sam.

"You will be thrown out if the servants find you."

"That's a risk, of course. But it's worth it--for a dance, ma'am."

"You may even be arrested."

"That's possible, too--but I've had one dance anyway."

"I shall not permit you," she went on, ignoring him, "to do what you

came here to do."

"Which is--"

"To rob people!"

The boatman stared at her, then broke into a laugh.

"You are here disguised--made up as a guest."

"Wrong, ma'am," he assured her. "I'm a man--made up as a gentleman."

"You came here to steal. You know it!"

"Raffles, eh? That's not a bad idea now. I hadn't thought of it;

honest I hadn't. But now you propose it--"

"I didn't!"

"But you certainly did, ma'am. You've put the idea into my head when I

hadn't the least notion of it. That makes you a sort of--"

"Stop!"

He shrugged resignedly.

"You're always snapping me up with that word," he complained. "You go

and hand me an idea and then when I get ready to do something with it

you tell me to stop."

"Will you tell me why you persist--in annoying me?"

"Do I? Why, I didn't think you were annoyed at all, back there while we

were dancing. You even asked me not to turn you back into the scramble

again, but to keep on as your partner."

"I never! You--"

"That's what you started to ask anyhow, ma'am. Because you remember you

thanked me for doing it."

She flushed crimson.

"But I intended to do it anyway," he added complacently. "I wasn't

going to lose a chance like that. They don't come often. I knew the

minute I laid eyes on you that you could dance."

She hastily changed the subject.

"My handkerchief--where did you get it?" she demanded.

"Found it in my boat; lucky of me, too. I'd forgotten a tie. How does

it look?"

Rosalind was beginning to sense the futility of the interview. She was

rapidly losing control of it. Yet she was anxious to prevent the man

from carrying out his very obvious purpose. Robberies among the guests

might entail risks--for her. It was scarcely possible that nobody had

seen her in the company of the boatman.

As she studied him, however, she admitted to herself that he might not

have been recognized. He was very different in appearance now. But

aside from the possibility that none save herself had paid attention to

him was his evident and persistent purpose to link her misfortunes with

his misdeeds. She had the sensation of a captive held for ransom, yet

kept in ignorance of what the ransom might be.

"You _must_ go away," she told him firmly.

"Can't, ma'am. I've got a passenger to ferry."

"You must leave the grounds; go back to your boat."

"And I was just beginning to have a good time," he said ruefully,

surveying his costume.

"I will pay you if you will go away."

"I haven't asked you to. I-- Here comes Reggy!"

Rosalind uttered a little cry and turned swiftly. The bulky figure of

Reginald Williams was moving toward them.

"I'll hide," said the boatman cheerfully. "Try and save another dance,

will you? Don't forget."

He slipped away from her and disappeared behind a thick clump of

shrubbery. A moment later Reginald arrived.

"I've been looking all over for you, Rosalind," he exclaimed. "What are

you doing out here?"

"I wanted some air."

"And you came alone?"

"Yes--alone."

"Tom Witherbee was looking all over for you at the end of that last

dance," said Reggy petulantly. "You're not treating any of us decently

to-night, Rosalind. First you won't dance, then you run away."

"I didn't wish to come in the first place."

"But you always used to dance. You used to dance with me, too. I know

I'm not much good at it, but--oh, hang it, Rosalind! I'm having a

rotten time. There isn't a girl in the whole crowd that'll dance with

me. They all ask me to please sit down and talk to them, and they look

at me as if there was something the matter with me."

"Perhaps you're not popular, Reggy," suggested Rosalind a little

viciously.

"That worries me a lot so far as the rest of the crowd are concerned.

But if I could only seem to be a little more popular with you--"

"Please don't start that again."

"I'm never going to stop it! Look here, Rosalind, it's not fair! Why,

you won't even wear that bracelet, although you said you were crazy over

it."

Rosalind bit her lip and remained silent.

"I haven't said anything about it before," continued Reggy grumblingly.

"It seemed sort of kiddish to get sore. But you wore it once and I

don't see why you can't wear it now. You don't have to be engaged to me

to do that; it's not like wearing a ring. Why won't you wear it?"

"Why, I--"

Rosalind faltered in speech, then made a little gesture of annoyance.

"There's not another bracelet like it in the world," he went on. "It

was just made for you."

"It was made for a mummy," corrected Rosalind.

"She wasn't a mummy--then. She was a live wire. I'll bet she wore it

every day she took a walk around the pyramids. And don't forget--she

was a princess, Rosalind."

"I haven't forgotten it; you won't let me. Besides, it was second

hand."

That was a brutal thing for Rosalind Chalmers to say, but she was in a

savage and exasperated mood. She was far more disturbed over the absence

of the bracelet than Reggy himself, but she could neither betray nor

explain that fact. She would have given a small slice of her ample

fortune if it were only upon her arm at that moment.

"Second hand!" snorted Reggy. "Second hand because a princess wore it?

That's the first time you ever pulled that stuff on me."

"Reggy!"

"Oh, well, those are my sentiments at any rate. Perhaps they're not very

elegantly expressed. But honestly, Rosalind, I'm sore. I think you

might wear it once in a while. Will you wear something else for me, if

I get it for you? A ring?"

"Oh, don't begin again, Reggy."

"I'm just picking up where I left off. Rosalind, why won't you marry

me?"

"Because I do not choose to."

"But you know I love you."

Rosalind nodded her head wearily.

"So why not?" he persisted.

"Reggy, you are positively dense," she said hopelessly. "Am I to marry

a man just because he loves me? Suppose I do not love him."

"Well, you can come as near to loving me as you can anybody, I guess. I

wouldn't expect you to love me a great deal. I don't think you're that

kind."

"You mean, I suppose," she said coldly, "that I am incapable of

affection."

"Oh, come; not like that, you know," broke in Reggy stumblingly.

"But--well-- Oh, I can't put it the way it ought to be put, Rosalind.

Of course you _could_ love anybody, if you wanted to. But what I mean

is, that--you're not apt to."

"Thank you for making it so clear, Reggy."

"And I'd be willing to get along with just--just--"

"Just toleration, I imagine."

"Yes, toleration!" he blurted. "So long as it was from you."

"Well, I'm not in a tolerant mood at present," said Rosalind. "Will you

take me back to the hotel?"

"Will you dance with me?"

"I think not."

"Will you wear the bracelet then?"

"Well--perhaps."

As they moved away the boatman stepped from his hiding-place.

"Bracelet," he muttered. "That's funny now. I wonder if it could be the

one."

*CHAPTER XV*

*WHEN SAM CAME IN HANDY*

He waited until Rosalind and her gloomy suitor passed from view, then

made for the hotel by another entrance. The door by which he obtained

access to the building led into a broad lobby, where superior clerks

yawned behind a counter that resembled a bar, and where there was a

news-stand, also other details of hotel-equipment arranged with a view

to reducing the amount of Federal reserve in individual depositaries.

Sam walked through the lobby at a casual pace. He was at ease with a

cigarette between his lips. The make-up had been tested and had not yet

buckled under the strain. None save Rosalind had paid the least

attention to the tie, which argued powerfully for its propriety.

At the farther end of the lobby was a great glass case, supported upon a

table. Within the case were many things. The boatman viewed them

deliberately.

The variety was rather extraordinary. There were things made of

leather, of linen, of silk, of worsted, of metal and of stone; things

that were old, others that were middle-aged, still others that were

palpably new; things that were ugly, arrayed beside things that were

pretty; big things, little things, nondescript things. Some of them

bore labels; others presented themselves to the eye without explanation

or excuse.

He lingered at one end of the case for a full minute, but his vision did

not penetrate the transparency of the glass. It was concerned wholly

with the case itself--its joints, its locks, its sliding doors.

Then his glance roved about the lobby. He counted the number of persons

that crossed it within a given interval and the directions in which they

went, as well as those from which they came. He noted the varying

degrees of occupation among the clerks, the news-stand girl, the

flower-stand girl, the porters and the bell-boys. He studied the

lights, the doorways, and the windows. He made a mental note of

distances and directions.

After that he strolled lazily back to the porch, where he made a

topographical inspection that involved the smoking of an entire

cigarette.

"Now for the master mechanic," he said as he moved along the veranda in

the direction of the dancing-room.

But the master mechanic was busy, quite beyond his reach. She was one

of a group gathered about the portly figure of Mr. Davidson and she was

listening to his words.

"It's been done again!" affirmed Mr. Davidson with gestures. "And the

patrol is supposed to be on the job! Right under the noses of James and

Eliza, too! And here I am, going away to-night! I'll not stand for it."

Rosalind signaled to Polly Dawson, and Polly invented a reason for

leading Reggy Williams beyond ear-shot. For Reggy's heart must be

subjected to no stresses other than those that might incidentally be

imposed by the charms of Polly herself.

"Anything gone this time?" asked Tom Witherbee.

"Clothes!" exploded Mr. Davidson. "My room ransacked, Billy's room

turned topsyturvy, bureau drawers dumped out on the floor and all that

sort of thing."

"But when?"

"Since we came up here, of course! I had to send the boat back for my

grips. I'm going away to-night and I forgot 'em. And then they saw

what happened. A fine mess! I'd like to know what good it did to

organize. He slipped right in under their noses and slipped out again."

"And no clue?"

"Clue--"

Mr. Davidson checked the word that was intended to follow immediately

thereafter and glared at the Jones boy, who was the questioner.

"Clue!" he said, beginning afresh. "I've quit looking for clues. I'm

looking for results. And I can get bunches of one and none of the

other. And here I am, headed for Denver to-night, and nobody but a pack

of fool servants to look after the place. I suppose the island'll be

gone when I get back."

"It's appalling," said Marjorie Winter.

"You're right, ma'am," declared Mr. Davidson truculently. "It's worse

than appalling. It's hell! Excuse me. But that's what it is."

"Couldn't you get detectives?"

"Detectives my eye! I never knew one yet that could detect anything

except an expense-account. No, sir! I've sent for Billy."

"His nephew, Billy Kellogg," explained Mrs. Witherbee in a whisper to

Rosalind. "The one that was sent away."

"Hated to do it, too," said Mr. Davidson. "But something had to be

done. Wired down to Hastings & Hatch a little while ago to ship him up

here the first thing to-morrow. Somebody's got to sit on the lid while

I'm gone.

"He's learned some sense, I hear. Got a report only this morning.

Sticking to his job like a nailer; that's why I hate to pull him off it.

But I'll ship him back--the young rascal! I'll not spoil him again.

Just as soon as I can get back from Denver, off he goes to the bank

again."

"You think he'll be able to manage?" ventured Mrs. Witherbee.

She had never met Billy Kellogg in the flesh, but had heard reports.

"He'll manage or I'll break his neck," said Mr. Davidson savagely. "And

I guess I won't have to do that either. Why, ma'am, he's a changed

person, so Hastings & Hatch tell me. On the job at eight-thirty every

morning, half an hour for lunch, sticking to it till five and six

o'clock every night. A regular horse for work, ma'am! Hang it if I

don't think he's earned a vacation--the scoundrel!"

Rosalind strolled away from the group as Mr. Davidson prepared to make

his departure for Clayton. She wondered if the boatman would have the

hardihood to show himself again in his stolen raiment.

Slow but persistent footfalls behind her warned her that she was being

followed. Finally she turned and beheld Mr. Morton.

"Strolling?" he asked in vacuous tones.

She answered with a nod that was not meant to encourage.

"I might go along?" he suggested.

"You might, I suppose."

Rosalind once more sought the cool softness of the grass underfoot, with

the tall and evidently preoccupied Englishman at her elbow.

"Oh, I say, Miss Chalmers," he exclaimed abruptly after they had walked

in silence for several minutes.

"Yes?"

"Would you--er--do you think you could--er--marry me?"

Rosalind eyed him with frank astonishment. A smile trembled on her

lips, but she did not allow it to blossom.

"I--er--love you tremendously, you know, Miss Chalmers."

"Really?"

"Oh, as sure as you live. Do you think you could, you know?"

"I'm afraid I neither would nor could, Mr. Morton," she said placidly.

"Hum! Ha! By Jove, but that's beastly hard luck, Miss Chalmers!"

Rosalind hovered between offense and amusement. She did not know whether

the eighteenth or the nineteenth offer was a compliment or otherwise.

She compromised by admitting to herself that she was bored.

"Rotten luck," he repeated musingly, stroking his yellow mustache.

"You speak as if it were a game of chance."

"I--er-- Oh, I beg your pardon. No offense whatever intended--really.

Only you see these things go awfully hard with a fellow, Miss Chalmers."

"After less than a week's acquaintance?"

"Ah, but you know I'm an impetuous chap. That's the worst of it."

Rosalind laughed in spite of her efforts to check the outburst. He did

not appear to notice it, so wholly was he engrossed with his own

misfortune--and his mustache.

"Then I suppose there's no hope?"

"Oh, none whatever!"

"Thanks awfully, you know. It's downright good of you to take it in

such a sporting way."

"I'm--I'm trying to bear it," she said, choking.

With a deep bow Mr. Morton excused himself and stalked silently away.

Rosalind looked after him, shaking with mirth.

"That makes the score two to-night," remarked a voice from behind her.

She turned quickly. The boatman had appeared as if by magic.

"Eavesdropper!" she said contemptuously.

"Couldn't help it the first time," he explained. "Had to hide from

Reggy. Do you always turn him down that way?"

She ignored the question.

"As for the second case," added Sam, jerking his finger in the direction

of the departing Englishman, "I'll admit I followed you. But it wasn't

for the purpose of overhearing a man get his death-sentence. I wanted to

see you about something."

"I don't propose to be annoyed by you any further."

"It's something important, ma'am."

As she started to walk toward the hotel he whispered a single word:

"_Bracelet!_"

Rosalind halted in her tracks.

"I thought that would stop you," he nodded.

"What do you know about a bracelet?" she demanded.

"I've seen one.

"Where?"

He looked mysterious and answered her with a question:

"Do you want me to show it to you?"

"You mean--_my_ bracelet?"

"A sort of hand-me-down bracelet," he grinned.

"A gold bracelet, carved--"

"One that they burglared a tomb for, perhaps, ma'am."

Rosalind was afire with excitement.

"Where did you see this thing? What do you mean? Have you--stolen it?'

"No, indeed. I haven't laid a finger on it, ma'am. But I wouldn't be

surprised if I'd laid eyes on it--the one that Reggy was sore about."

Rosalind thought swiftly. Neither Gertrude nor Polly was wearing it

that evening, she remembered.

Where was it? She had a numbing sense of misgiving.

"Show it to me," she commanded.

"Of course it's possible I've made a mistake, ma'am, but--"

"Where is it?"

"Perhaps it's in the hotel."

"Who is wearing it?"

"Nobody."

"Is it in your pocket?" suspiciously.

The boatman laughed.

"I told you I hadn't touched it," he said.

Rosalind was losing control of her little trifle of patience.

"Take me to it!" she said peremptorily.

He led the way toward the veranda. She followed as far as the steps,

then halted. Sam divined the cause of her hesitation. He laughed once

more good-naturedly.

"I see you don't want to take another chance with me in there," he

remarked, pointing. "In a way I don't blame you. That's a mighty

catchy little thing the band's playing. I've almost a mind to take a

dance in payment. But we'll postpone that, ma'am.

"Now, do you see that second doorway? No; the second to the right.

It's the office entrance. Go through it and walk straight back until you

reach the rear of the lobby. You'll see a glass case there. Take a look

at some of the things in it."

She started swiftly up the steps.

"I'll be out here among the trees," he called after her. "I've got an

idea you'll want to see me again."

Rosalind hurried along the porch and entered the second doorway to the

right. Just beyond the threshold she paused and her glance swept the

lobby. Yes, there was a glass case at the farther end. She stepped

forward without further hesitation.

There, its aristocratic beauty undimmed by the cheap, gaudy gew-gaws

that hedged it about, lay her bracelet!

She was too bewildered even to gasp, but stood rigid as a statue,

staring. Her bracelet--lying in the mids of a tawdry collection of

jewelry, silverware, and brass ornaments!

What did it mean. How did it get there?

As she stood in awful fascination, a bell-boy approached.

"The sale is to-morrow afternoon, ma'am," he said.

"The sale!"

Rosalind spoke so explosively that the boy was startled.

"Yes, ma'am; at three o'clock. There's the sign."

He pointed to a placard that rested on the top of the case. She read:

"These beautiful articles in this case, donated through a spirit of

humanity by residents and summer visitors at the islands, will be sold

at three o'clock to-morrow afternoon for the benefit of the war

sufferers in Europe.

"If you cannot add your mite to the collection, you are cordially

invited to attend the sale and become a purchaser, and incidentally a

helper in a noble cause.

"Mr. Heinrich Schmidt of Chicago has kindly consented to act as

auctioneer."

Rosalind clutched at something to steady herself and found that she was

grasping the sleeve of the bell-boy.

"Ouch, ma'am!" he exclaimed as her fingers bit sharply into his arm.

"Would you like a glass of water, ma'am?"

She released her victim and shook her head. The boy saluted and went

back to his bench.

Horror of horrors! And the Witherbees had done this thing! Her

bracelet--that dull circlet of gold that once girdled the arm of a

princess of Egypt--that strange and beautiful bauble that had not its

match in the whole world--was to be vulgarly hawked to a rabble by a

grain-broker named Schmidt who came from Chicago!

The picture that flashed into her mind made her shudder with disgust.

There would be a bargain-counter rush, a noisy clamor of voices shouting

offers--putting a price on _her_ bracelet! And it would be held aloft

in the fat, ruthless hand of Schmidt, dangled before the eyes of a mob,

while he goaded them to bid higher and higher!

"Never!" she muttered through clenched teeth.

Valiant resolution! Yet in the same instant she realized her impotence

to carry it into effect. The case was securely locked. Besides, there

were other persons in the lobby. She felt sure at the very least that

the bell-boy was watching her.

She could summon the Witherbees, of course--they who had done this awful

thing--but that meant confessions and complications--and ridicule!

She might come to-morrow and buy her own bracelet, rub elbows with a

scrambling and motley crowd, and match her lungs and her purse against

the hardiest of them. But her very soul shrank from that; she knew that

she could not do it. Better never see the bracelet again.

Yet Rosalind would not for an instant yield weakly to what seemed the

inevitable and permanent loss of her dearly prized property. She was

brimming with fight, even though she did not know how to fight, or whom.

"I'll get it!" she whispered grimly. "I'll get it if I have to burn

down the hotel."

As she glanced helplessly about her, her eyes met those of Reggy

Williams, approaching from the doorway that led to the ballroom.

Here was fresh dismay. Reggy could not--must not--look into that

fateful showcase! He was coming to her swiftly, and Rosalind, pulling

herself together sharply, advanced to meet him.

"What's the attraction?" he asked, looking over her shoulder.

"Oh, nothing. Let's go out on the porch."

"But what's the stuff in the glass case?" he persisted, trying to dodge

past her.

She grasped him firmly by the arm.

"Please take me outside, Reggy," she said. "I want some air. Nothing

there but some things they're going to sell for the Belgians.

They're--not interesting."

It was Rosalind who took Reggy outside, rather than Reggy who assisted

Rosalind. She did it with an expedition and a determination that

puzzled him, particularly when, having walked him to the farther end of

the porch, she turned him over to Polly Dawson with a severe

injunction--whispered--to make him sit down and keep quiet for half an

hour.

Then with a swift seizure of opportunity Rosalind escaped to the lawn

and walked out among the trees, stern purpose in her heart and a whirl

of desperate ideas in her brain. She was looking for Sam!

*CHAPTER XVI*

*ROUGH STUFF*

"You're quite sure it belongs to you?" asked Sam, his scrutiny of

Rosalind's face pointed to the verge of annoyance.

"I have said so," she answered with finality.

A fifteen-minute conversation had preceded.

"It's not the kind of a job I'd pick of my own choosing," he remarked

reflectively.

"I tell you, it _must_ be done!"

"Why not give me a handful of money and let me go in to-morrow and buy

it?"

"No! It's mine!"

"Why not claim it, then?"

"I cannot. I--"

He waited patiently for the remainder of the sentence.

"Oh, what is the use of explaining?" she exclaimed irritably. "The

point is, it belongs to me. I must have it. I _will_ have it! Why

should you haggle over the question as to the real owner--after what you

have done?"

"Which is to say--"

"Come," said Rosalind. "You and I have no need to beat about the bush

in this matter. You are perfectly well aware that I know what you are.

I'm not blind, or even dense."

"No, ma'am," he said meekly enough.

"The point is, you know how to do it."

"I suppose that's a compliment."

"Judge it as you please. It may be a compliment or a reproach. I'm not

talking about the ethics of the matter, I'm talking about results."

"Well, what is there in it for me?" he demanded bluntly.

"I'll pay you!"

"How much?"

"Why--almost anything you ask."

"You don't drive a very sharp bargain, ma'am," he commented.

"I am not accustomed to dealing with--"

"Thieves?"

Rosalind nodded.

"Well, it might be done," he admitted slowly. "But it has risks. And it

can't be done alone."

"It will be necessary for you to have help?"

"Yes! that's certain. I'll need you, in fact."

Rosalind evinced no hesitation. She was thinking only of her bracelet,

in the winning of which she was willing to burn all bridges.

"Very well; what do you want me to do?"

The boatman eyed her curiously.

"It depends," he answered, "on just what we figure to do. Of course, we

could crack the case and make a run for it. But that's too simple to

get away with. No chance.

"We could get a crowd into the lobby perhaps, and then try it. That's a

little better. Or we might be able to manage to get everybody out of

the lobby, even the clerks, and make a stab at it that way. I'm not

very strong for that, either."

"Couldn't you wait until the hotel was closed?" asked Rosalind.

It did not occur to her for an instant that she was plotting against the

criminal law.

He shook his head, after appearing to consider the suggestion.

"There's always a bell-hop on duty," he said. "I don't see how it could

be done, unless we both hang around until after the crowd is gone. And

I suppose you've got to go home with your people."

"That's true," she admitted.

"No," said the boatman. "If it's going to be done at all it must be

pulled off while the crowd is still here. That's a cinch. I may be

willing to take a chance after hours somewhere else, but not here. It

seems to me if we're going to get that bracelet we've got to make a

different sort of play. How about stealing the whole show-case?"

Rosalind stared.

"That is, stealing it for a while," he continued. "I don't mean carting

all that truck away; we wouldn't know what to do with it. Besides, most

of it isn't worth anything. You don't happen to be wearing a badge, do

you?"

"A badge?"

"One of those red-and-gold affairs that say something about the

Belgians."

"Of course not."

"We need a couple," he reflected. "Will you get them?"

"Where?"

"Well, a lot of the men are wearing them. I've seen a few on the women,

too. You might go in and dance a couple of times.'

"You mean--"

The boatman nodded.

"Impossible!"

"Not a bit, ma'am, if you'll only dance the way you did with me. You

can make a man forget everything else except his feet. It'll be dead

easy. He'll be in a trance. All you do when you've got him under the

influence is to cop his badge. And be sure to get two; that means two

dances."

Rosalind was unconvinced.

"Tell me more," she commanded.

For another five minutes the boatman talked earnestly. She hesitated

doubtfully and shook her head several times, yet she listened. When the

wavering instants came upon her she thought of the bracelet. Whenever

she remembered that fresh resolution re-enforced her soul.

"It is despicable--hateful!" she said.

"But it's reasonably sure," he supplemented.

"And then--if I get them?"

"Meet me at the end of the porch."

She hesitated.

"Of course, it really belongs to me," she remarked parenthetically.

Sam chuckled.

"Now you're getting back to the morals of it. That won't get you

anything, ma'am."

"But--"

"Take the bull outside and shoot it," he interrupted tersely. "What

difference does it make whether you own it or not? Maybe you do;

perhaps you don't. I'm not asking you to produce any title-deeds. The

point to aim at is--get the bracelet!

"It may belong to the Queen of England for all I know. I don't think

you'd be particular if it did, provided you wanted it. You asked me to

go shares on this job--"

"I didn't!"

"I guess that's right, too. You wanted me to do it alone. That's worse

because you were sticking all the chances on me. But so far as stealing

it goes, you'll have to admit that I didn't suggest it. I only told you

where the thing was. Then you make a proposition to hire me."

She flushed, but remained silent.

"So it becomes a fifty-fifty deal," he concluded.

Rosalind thought of the name of the boatman's launch. It assumed a new

significance.

"So it's up to you to get those two badges and get 'em quick," he

declared bruskly. "I don't care how; only I suggested a way. If you

can think of a better one, go to it."

Rosalind compressed her lips and started toward the hotel.

"Any time you get cold feet," he advised, "just remember the bracelet."

It was superfluous advice. There was no fear she would forget it. It

constituted her whole sustaining motive.

Three dances went by, and the boatman still waited under the trees. The

music had heralded a fourth when he sighted a tall, slim figure in white

approaching with quick steps.

"Here they are," said Rosalind shortly.

She thrust two red-and-gold badges into his hand so roughly that the

pins pricked him.

"It took you three dances," he grumbled as he sucked one of his fingers.

"Well, I got them!" she exclaimed fiercely. "Now let me see you do

something."

For answer, he coolly pinned one of the badges against her snow-white

gown and stepped back to study the result.

"Now we belong," he commented as he affixed the second badge to the

lapel of his coat. "Of course, it makes us just like common folks, but

we can't be particular, considering what we're after. Did your partners

happen to notice that they'd been frisked?"

Rosalind forbore to answer; she was outraged and incensed.

"Remember, now!" he cautioned. "We're both on the committee. What we

say goes. And if you try to run out on me, look out, ma'am."

Her figure stiffened perceptibly.

"Not afraid?" he asked.

"I'm rather inclined to believe that you are," said Rosalind coldly.

"Come on, then," said the boatman.

Together they walked into the lobby of the hotel. All of the dancers

were elsewhere, but the clerks and the bell-boys were in their

accustomed places. Across the lobby, their red badges proclaiming

ostentatious sympathy with a war-stricken hemisphere, the boatman and

Rosalind Chalmers made their way at a deliberate pace. There was a

flush in her cheeks--not of guilt, but of shame. If any one should see!

"Loosen up a little," he cautioned in a whisper. "Act human. Remember

you're just common folks now. Smile at me; you're not headed for a

funeral. That's better; that's more natural."

They paused in front of the glass case. For a second time Rosalind's

glance rested upon her bracelet. The sight filled her with new courage.

Sam turned and beckoned authoritatively toward a uniformed youth who

lolled on a bench.

"Yes, sir," said the boy as he advanced and saluted.

"Get some of the other boys or some porters. We want this case moved,"

he said briskly.

The boy eyed him doubtfully.

"It's to be taken into the ballroom, isn't it?" inquired the boatman,

turning to Rosalind.

"Of course," she answered.

"It's getting no display here at all," said Sam, turning to the boy.

"The committee wants it where the guests can see it. Hurry up, now.

Get some boys."

"I'll speak to the manager," said the bell-hop.

"Mr. Saunders? No need; I've already spoken to him. And he said to

make you boys jump. Incidentally, there's half a dollar apiece in it for

you. Step lively!"

The boy was galvanized. He made a swift gesture to a uniformed group on

the other side of the lobby, and was joined by four other boys.

"Now, boys," explained the boatman, "this case is to be moved into the

ballroom. We want it to get a little advertising. You must be very

careful with it."

The five boys nodded and ranged themselves about the table.

"You'll see why you must be careful if you look inside," continued Sam.

"There's a lot of valuable stuff in there, boys--stuff that can be

broken if it's handled roughly. Stuff that might be lost, too--and

couldn't be replaced.

"See that pair of earrings? They'll sell for fifty dollars, easy. See

those brass candlesticks? They're worth twenty-five. And if there

wasn't anything else in the case, that bracelet is enough to make you

careful. It's worth a hundred at the very least; perhaps five hundred.

Now, do you understand?"

The five boys were staring in fascination at the magic bauble. The

boatman made a swift scrutiny of their faces.

To Rosalind his harangue was without meaning. She tapped one foot

restlessly upon the floor and looked about her.

"Well, if you're sure you're not going to drop it, grab hold," advised

the boatman.

The captain boy and his four assistants laid hold of the case and raised

it gingerly from the table.

"Which way, sir?"

"By way of the porch," said Sam. "Careful now! I'm responsible for

this stuff, and I'd hate to have to replace some of it--especially that

bracelet. That's it; steady! Take it easy."

The five boys moved slowly across the lobby to the main entrance,

clinging grimly to the glazed box that contained so many wonderful

trinkets. Their eyes, hitherto incurious concerning its contents, were

now fascinated.

"Nothing like a little judicious barking," whispered the boatman to

Rosalind as they followed in the rear of the procession.

The owner of the bracelet was mystified. Something, she knew, had not

been confided to her. But there was no time to demand an explanation.

Out upon the porch the burden-bearers, breathing rapidly, turned in the

direction indicated by Sam, and began a laborious journey between tables

and chairs.

"Take it slowly," cautioned the boatman. "There's no hurry."

"If we don't hurry, we'll have to set it down!" gasped the captain.

"It's heavy!"

"Tired, eh? Well, take a rest. No use running a chance of dropping it.

Here--not that way! Tilt the end of it up on the rail. There! Now ease

up on it. That's it. Take a breathing-spell."

The show-case lay balanced across the railing of the veranda, while five

boys recovered breath. One of them steadied it with a hand, while four

mopped their brows. Sam bent over the gaudy display beneath the glass,

and seemed to be talking to himself.

"Good stuff, some of that. It ought to sell high. I wouldn't mind

bidding on that brooch myself. But the bracelet--whew! That's going

high, I'll bet. Why, I know a dealer--"

The boatman's foot slipped and he lurched heavily against the case.

There was a warning cry from the boy who balanced it upon its precarious

perch, echoed by a sharp exclamation from Rosalind as the case upended

and slid gently over the railing. An instant later it landed with a

jingling crash on the gravel path, six feet below.

Sam swore fervently at his own carelessness.

"Quick!" he commanded. "Get down here, you, and pick up the stuff!"

Five boys scrambled over the railing and leaped to the ground.

Rosalind, almost in a frenzy of solicitude for her precarious property,

started to run toward the nearest steps. She was pulled back.

"S-sh! Stay here!" commanded the boatman. "Watch!"

He leaned over the railing and looked down upon the wreckage, amid which

his uniformed helpers were already on their knees, heedless of broken

glass and intent only upon retrieving the treasures that had come such a

melancholy cropper.

Bit by bit they rescued the miscellaneous donations to the cause of

Belgian relief. Bit by bit they tossed aside the broken glass and piled

in a loose heap the gaudy gifts that had been so tenderly guarded.

"Watch!" repeated Sam in a whisper.

Rosalind watched, but she was still bewildered. A moment later her lips

parted and her eyes widened with alarm.

"Keep still!" cautioned her companion. "I saw it, too. It's the

black-haired one, isn't it?"

She nodded.

"That's the way I made it. I spotted him back in the lobby," said the

boatman in a low tone. "Leave him to me."

"But another one--that one"--she pointed--"has a ring, and I think--"

"Hush! What do you care? It's the one with the black hair for us."

A minute later the captain looked up at the watchers.

"We've got it all picked up, sir," he said. "What'll we do with it?"

"Carry it back to the lobby," said the boatman. "It was my fault; I'll

explain how it happened. We'll see if we can get another case."

"Go get an omnibus tray," ordered the head bell-boy.

A uniformed youth with black hair detached himself from the group and

hurried to obey. But he did not move in the direction of the

dining-room. Instead, having ascended to the porch, he headed in an

opposite direction and made off at a brisk pace.

"I'll attend to him," said the boatman hurriedly to Rosalind. "It's all

right. Beat it, you! Take off that badge and make yourself scarce.

That's what I'm going to do as soon as I interview our enterprising

young friend. See you to-morrow, maybe. Don't worry--pal."

He was gone down the porch. Rosalind looked after him doubtfully.

Then, with a swift movement, she tore the red badge from her dress,

concealed it in her hand, and moved off in an opposite direction.

There was nothing more to be done save escape. The enterprise was on the

knees of the gods. Only one thing was certain--Mr. Schmidt, of Chicago,

would never desecrate the property of a princess.

In a dark angle of the porch a wriggling boy in uniform was pinned

against the wall by a sinewy hand that grasped his shoulder none too

gently.

"Fork it out!" hissed the boatman.

"I--I--"

"You little crook, I saw you! Come on! Kick in with it!"

"But I didn't mean--honest!"

"Produce! I don't care what you meant. I saw you pipe it, you young

burglar! Ah--I thought so!"

The boatman held a heavy yet flexible object close to his eyes to make

sure. Then he slipped it into his pocket.

"If I catch you around this hotel again it'll be you for the lockup!" he

growled as he swung the youth away from the wall and held him at arm's

length.

Then the bell-boy was booted off into the gloom.

The boatman waited until the sound of terrified footsteps faded away.

He laughed, a second later, as he vaulted the railing to the sod beneath

and vanished among the trees on the darkest part of the lawn.

*CHAPTER XVII*

*THICKENING MYSTERY*

The Witherbee yacht was nearing Clayton, with Rosalind as its only

passenger. Principally, its errand was to meet William Kissam Kellogg,

the nephew who had been summoned so peremptorily from his banking career

in New York to take charge of the Davidson place.

Although the Witherbees were not acquainted with the young man, they had

volunteered to take charge of his comfort and entertainment while his

uncle was in the West. He was arriving on a mid-day train.

Rosalind was going shopping, she told Mrs. Witherbee. If she was also

seeking temporary escape from a household where she found herself

somewhat bored, her shopping errands were none the less _bona fide_.

And if, further, she had a certain curiosity concerning Billy Kellogg,

even a proper regard for the truth did not require her to say so, for

she really had things to buy.

There had been less commotion over the exploit of the glass case than

either she or the boatman expected. Thus far, it passed for a mishap.

The fact that none of the bell-boys was able to point out the two

badge-wearing conspirators, because of their disappearance, occasioned

no unusual comment, for there were so many committee-members.

Nor did it appear that anybody possessed an inventory of what the glass

case contained. As for the boy who did exactly what Sam expected him to

do, there was nothing to be feared in that quarter. He was a frightened

and chastened youth.

Rosalind had not yet recovered her bracelet, but, curiously perhaps, she

found more comfort in the reflection that it was in the hands of a

burglar than she would had it remained to be sold by the volunteer

auctioneer from Chicago. To make sure that her conscience would not

trouble her, she contributed a liberal cash donation to the Belgian

fund.

Just when and how the boatman would deliver her property she had not

been informed; but, although she was still undecided as to whether his

major profession was that of spy, smuggler, or thief, or whether he

skilfully combined all three vocations, she had a rather illogical yet

firmly grounded belief that the time was not distant when her bracelet

would again be clasped upon her arm.

Her shopping-tour in Clayton concerned itself mainly with the purchase

of postage stamps. She maintained a furtive watch for Sam, but got no

sight of him, nor did she see his boat at any of the wharfs. When she

returned to the Witherbee yacht the new passenger was aboard.

He was sitting forward, under an awning, chewing an unlighted cigar and

shifting his feet restlessly as he glanced about him. Rosalind was

disappointed; he was not at all as she had imagined him. He was short

and chunky, with a tendency to flesh lamentable in one so young. He did

not look in the least devilish.

"He's as meek as the _White Knight_," thought Rosalind as she studied

him. "The reformation must be very great."

He did not see her until she was close to him, and then it was to greet

her with a startled leap from his chair and an embarrassed scrutiny.

"Mr. Kellogg, I believe?"

"Why--eh?"

"You are Mr. Kellogg, whom the Witherbees are expecting?"

"Certainly; of course. I beg your pardon."

Rosalind smiled. Evidently he was one of the difficult kind.

"I am Miss Chalmers," extending her cool fingers to him.

He shook hands nervously.

"You got Mr. Witherbee's telegram aboard the train?"

"Oh, yes; I got it. Very kind of him, too."

"They thought it would be rather lonely for you over at your own island,

while Mr. Davidson is away, with none but the servants there."

"It would, it would," he assented quickly.

"So I am to bring you down to Mr. Witherbee's, where he hopes you will

become his guest for as long a period as you find it agreeable. If it

is necessary for you to be over at your own island at night, it is only

a few minutes' run in the launch."

"I'm--I'm not sure it will be necessary at all," he broke in earnestly.

Rosalind was faintly puzzled. She could not understand Mr. Davidson's

supreme confidence in this nephew as a protector of his island home. He

did not seem in the smallest degree anxious for the task.

"You have heard about all the trouble, of course?"

"Er--what?"

"About the burglars and the smuggling and so forth?"

"Oh, yes--yes! But my uncle didn't give any details. He's--he's gone,

I suppose?"

There was anxiety in his voice that did not escape her. Rosalind

concluded that Billy Kellogg was very much afraid of his uncle.

"He's well on his way to Denver by this time," she assured him. "He has

been speaking very well of you, Mr. Kellogg."

"Yes?"

"Indeed, yes! He has told us frequently about your success in New

York."

"Has he? Good of him, I'm sure."

"He was reluctant to take you from your work," she continued,

determined, if it were possible, to put this young man at his ease. "He

felt that, perhaps, you would not want to come."

"I didn't!" he answered explosively.

Rosalind studied him in silence.

"You find banking--interesting?"

"Tremendously!"

"That's odd!" she said before she thought.

"How's that? What?"

"I beg your pardon," said Rosalind. "I didn't mean it exactly that way.

Only--Well, you know, we've heard about you, Mr. Kellogg, and we rather

pictured a young man who wouldn't be particularly absorbed by anything

so serious and important as running a bank."

He blushed vividly.

"I hope I haven't been clumsy in alluding to anything unpleasant," she

went on quickly. "I didn't intend--"

"Oh, not at all; it's all right, I assure you. I don't mind.

Only--I've changed; that's all."

"Were you very wicked?"

She asked the question gravely; the mischief lay only in her eyes.

"Oh--I--hum! Why, I don't know that I was actually _wicked_."

He was squirming most unaccountably for a young man with a Billy Kellogg

past, and Rosalind was speedily becoming more mystified. She felt that

she was looking upon a miracle--and was not entirely sure that she

approved of it.

Wickedness, or what passed for it in the average youth of her world, was

infinitely more entertaining than the goodness of a young man who

patterned his life after the hero of the _Rollo_ books.

"You were simply thoughtless, I presume," she remarked.

"Thoughtless? Indeed I was--very."

"Tell me about it."

Rosalind was not wholly averse to the practise of a woman's wiles. Here

was a young man, she decided, who was vulnerable to the most ancient

wile of all--flattery of feminine sympathy and curiosity.

Yet the curiosity on her own part was genuine enough. Billy Kellogg had

been sent away because of an episode which included H. Evelyn Morton as

one of its actors, and Rosalind was still unsatisfied in her quest for

information about the Englishman.

"There isn't much to tell," he answered diffidently.

"You may light that cigar," she informed him.

He was still chewing upon it abstractedly. He availed himself of the

permission, but without any advance toward ease of manner.

"They said that you gambled--rather heavily," she suggested.

"Oh--that!" he exclaimed.

"But did you?"

"I suppose so. There--there wasn't much else to do."

"I'm sure there wasn't," she said sympathetically. "It must have been

quite dull so early in the season."

"That was it--dull," he assented. "You see--er--I wasn't working then,

and I had to have something to fill in my time."

"And you lost--"

"Ten thousand dollars."

She arched her eyebrows slightly. It was a sum that did not impress

Rosalind as stupendous, but the tone in which he mentioned it was one of

awe.

"You are a more desperate person than I imagined," she said chidingly.

He looked at her, startled; then flushed again.

"You see, it was a year's income--a whole year!"

"Was it? I hadn't heard. How interesting!"

"I don't know whether you are familiar with the circumstances, Miss

Chalmers," he went on slowly.

"Not a single one--but I'd like to know awfully. That is, if you don't

mind. One is so apt to get false impressions when one does not

understand."

"Why--er--yes," he sighed. "You see, I have an income--ten thousand

dollars a year. The estate itself is in the hands of a guardian--my

uncle."

"Mr. Davidson?"

"Yes; Uncle Henry. He manages things until I'm thirty. All I get--or

did get--was the income."

Rosalind nodded.

"Well, I used to play cards a good bit. I was always losing, somehow.

I was always drawing in advance on Uncle Henry. I suppose you can

understand how that was."

"Oh, thoroughly!"

"Of course, he didn't fancy that much. He said I was getting into

disastrous habits, and--I guess he was right. He wanted me to stop

playing cards for money."

"Was it bridge?"

"That was it--bridge."

"It's rather fascinating," she commented.

"I thought so--once," he said gloomily. "Well, Uncle Henry had some

friends up from the city, and we had a pretty heavy game one night.

There was a Mr. Morton there."

"I know. Go ahead; it's becoming exciting."

"Well, Morton cleaned me; that's all. Cleaned me for a year's income.

Of course, I hadn't saved anything before that; in fact, I was

overdrawn. So that settled it."

He stared disconsolately at the river.

"And Mr. Davidson?" she suggested.

"Uncle Henry? Well, he hit the ceiling, if you know what that means."

"I have a notion. He was very angry?"

"He said he wouldn't stand for any more of it. He wouldn't advance me

another cent until it was due. That meant a year, you see. I couldn't

live on nothing for a year."

"I should say not!"

"So when I saw I had to go to work, he offered to get me a job. He--he

wrote a letter to Hastings & Hatch, in New York, and they took me in.

I've been there ever since."

"Wasn't it very hard--at first?"

"Why, it was luck--I mean, I liked it!"

"How fortunate!"

"Yes," he went on; "I got to like it right away. I really didn't want to

come back at all, only Uncle Henry insisted. He telegraphed the firm.

I tried to get out of it, but they made me come."

"I'm sure you've earned a rest," declared Rosalind, nodding positively.

"Your uncle thinks you are doing so splendidly. I know that he will be

very glad to see you."

"You don't mean to say--he's here!"

There was something very much like terror in his wide eyes.

"Oh, no; he's on his way West. What I meant was, he'll return before

you go back to the city. You are to stay in charge until he gets here."

"I don't see how I can. Honestly, I don't see how. I've got to get

back to work--soon."

"You are a very unaccountable person, Mr. Kellogg," commented Rosalind.

"I never knew anybody who underwent such a change of heart in such a

short time. Do you mean to tell me that it doesn't make you glad just

to be here?"

He surveyed the river, the islands, and the passing craft. Then he

shook his head.

"Perhaps I know the reason," she suggested.

He looked at her suspiciously.

"Perhaps it is that you are not anxious to meet Mr. Morton again."

"Is _he_ here?"

"He is one of the guests at our island."

Kellogg lifted his ungraceful bulk abruptly from his chair and walked to

the rail, where he stood for a moment gazing down at the water.

"I beg your pardon," he said, turning. "I--I didn't intend to be rude.

But it was a sort of surprise, you know."

"I didn't know there had been a quarrel."

"Oh, no; not a quarrel exactly. But--"

"You are afraid it may be embarrassing."

"That's it--embarrassing."

"But your uncle seems to have no feeling against him, Mr. Kellogg."

"I know; I understand. But that's different. He didn't lose a year's

income."

"Of course, we could have the yacht leave you at your own place," went

on Rosalind, "if you positively insist on avoiding Mr. Morton. But, as

I said, there are only the servants there."

"I wouldn't go there for the world!" he exclaimed hastily. "That

is--not now."

"Then, of course, you will stay with us."

"I might go to a hotel; yes, I think I'd better."

"But there is none within several miles of your island. How could you

look after things so far away?"

"That's so; I'd forgotten."

His old uneasiness had returned. Rosalind was again in perplexity. She

considered Billy Kellogg as not only unaccountable, but colorless.

She was rather glad he had lost a year's income, if this was his

spiritless type. An hour before she had been anticipating a welcome

accession to the Witherbee house-party--welcome because she felt quite

sure that no young man could fail to be an improvement upon Mr. Morton,

Reggy, Fortescue Jones, and the Perkins boy. Now she was rapidly

reaching the conclusion that Billy Kellogg was even worse than any of

them, and it was peculiarly a shock because it so wholly reversed her

anticipations.

"You won't be paired off with Mr. Morton, at any rate," she told him

consolingly. "There are lots of others. Polly Dawson, for instance;

she knows you, I understand."

"Er--she is there?"

"Yes, indeed," and then Rosalind enumerated the other guests.

He shook his head as she named each person, and then returned to Polly

Dawson.

"That's another surprise," he confessed.

"Not unpleasant, I hope?"

"Oh, no; not at all. I assure you I didn't mean that. Only--well, it's

a surprise."

"Polly is really a very nice girl. And I've heard her speak of you so

often."

"Er--have you? That's good of her, I'm sure."

After this he fell into a period of silence, from which all the arts of

Rosalind Chalmers were unable to extricate him, save for fitful and

brief intervals. Ordinarily, she would not have wasted her time upon

such a dull and diffident young man; she would have taken his manner as

an affront to her natural claims upon masculine attention.

But in this instance Rosalind's curiosity was piqued. She could not

reconcile him with his reputation. If ever a devil-may-care spirit

lurked in this beefy youth, something supernatural had exorcised it.

"Your island," she said, pointing.

"Looks all right," he commented, after a moment of staring.

"You don't seem particularly glad to see it."

He merely shrugged.

"Your uncle's yacht went to Kingston, I believe, to obtain some

supplies."

"That's good."

"That's why Mr. Witherbee sent his own boat."

"Mighty kind of him, I'm sure."

Rosalind sighed. By all odds, this was the most difficult young man of

her experience. She was glad that the voyage would terminate speedily.

A knot of persons was standing on the Witherbee wharf, awaiting the

arrival of the big power-launch.

"There are Mrs. Witherbee and Gertrude and some of the others," said

Rosalind, her eyes busy. "I don't see Mr. Morton; I imagine you won't

mind that, however. But--yes, Polly's there."

"I--I don't see her," declared Kellogg. "Where?"

"In blue, the third from the left."

"Oh, yes; now I see."

He studied the short, plump figure of Polly Dawson with absorbed

interest as the boat neared the wharf. There was a hunted expression in

his eyes; his fingers twitched.

Mrs. Witherbee welcomed the new guest effusively.

"We've heard so much about you, Mr. Kellogg, that it really seems as if

we knew you. But you left before we came up for the season. We're

going to try to make up for it."

"That's awfully good of you," stammered the prodigal.

"My daughter, Gertrude."

He shook hands and bowed.

"Miss Winter."

He repeated the same perfunctory ceremony, but his glance was wandering

restlessly.

"Mr. Jones, Mr. Perkins, and my son, Tom."

Kellogg responded mechanically to the greetings. Rosalind, following the

line of his glance, saw that it encompassed the figure of Polly Dawson.

And in Polly's eyes, which were staring at the new guest, was an

expression that completely baffled her.

"Oh, Polly, where are you?" called Mrs. Witherbee. "I believe you've met

Mr. Kellogg, haven't you?"

Polly stepped forward and extended her hand. Rosalind watched the

meeting narrowly. She sensed a situation that she did not

understand--but she proposed to find out.

"Hello--Billy," said Polly in a queer voice.

"How do do--Polly?"

There was the same hesitation in Kellogg's tone.

"You're looking very well," she murmured.

"Feeling fine, thanks," he returned awkwardly.

Rosalind believed she was beginning to see a light. Here were the

surface indications of heart-trouble, either on one side or the other,

possibly on both. Yet on the many occasions that Polly had spoken of

Kellogg, never once, either in word or manner, had she betrayed the

existence of an affair of sentiment.

"Polly is deeper than she seems," Rosalind told herself.

It was Mrs. Witherbee who broke the tension.

"You must come straight up to the house and meet the others," she

commanded. "We've all been expecting you, and we're delighted to have

you. I told your uncle that we'd probably keep you here most of the

time, unless it's absolutely necessary for you to stay at your own

place."

"It isn't," he said quickly.

"I knew it wasn't," declared the hostess with emphasis. "I told Mr.

Davidson the servants could do without you. So you may as well have a

good time with us. Come along."

She linked an arm within that of the stammering guest and led him toward

the house. Some of the others followed.

Polly lingered on the wharf, watching. So did Rosalind. When the

procession had passed from ear-shot, the two women looked at each other.

"I had no idea, of course," said Rosalind, "that there had been--well,

that anything had happened between you two."

Polly stared and was silent for half a minute.

"Nothing ever did happen between Billy and me," she answered slowly.

"But--"

"Where did you find him?" demanded Polly.

"At Clayton, of course. He came aboard while I was shopping. One of

the men met him at the train and brought down his grips."

Polly's brow was furrowed deeply.

"I cannot understand it," she muttered. "It's--it's beyond belief."

"What?"

"His coming here."

Polly pointed at the retreating figures.

"Mr. Kellogg?"

"Kellogg? That's not Billy Kellogg!"

"Not Billy Kellogg?" echoed Rosalind. "Why, Polly!"

"That man is _not_ Billy Kellogg," repeated Polly, shaking her head.

"Then--then who is he?"

"I haven't the slightest idea."

*CHAPTER XVIII*

*WHO? WHAT? WHY? WHERE?*

"But, Polly, it's inconceivable!"

Rosalind was preyed upon by confused emotions. She was mystified,

shocked, startled, apprehensive, even angry. Dominant was the sensation

that this chunky, colorless young man had played a hoax upon her.

"It's true," affirmed Polly stubbornly. "I surely know Billy Kellogg

when I see him."

"Of course! But what does it mean?"

Polly made a helpless gesture.

"He came aboard as Mr. Kellogg," said Rosalind, talking as if in

self-justification. "He pretended to be Mr. Kellogg. He knew all about

having been sent for by his uncle. Of course, he did act strangely.

But he knew Mr. Morton; he even knew you!"

"You're sure?"

"Well," admitted Rosalind, on reflecting, "now that I think of it, in

your case, I had to point you out on the wharf. But he said he

recognized you. And you called him Billy!"

"I didn't want to make a scene," said Polly. "I knew there was

something wrong, of course. So I just pretended--thought I'd wait till

I got my bearings."

"But who can he be?"

"I tell you, Rosalind, I don't know, I never saw the man before."

"But he's pretending to be Mr. Kellogg--if he isn't!"

"Evidently. Oh, dear! It's beyond me."

"It has something to do with these burglaries," declared Rosalind.

"I suppose so. It's awful!"

"He's probably a thief."

"Very likely."

"Yet you've recognized him--or pretended to! Do you realize what you've

done, Polly Dawson?"

"He called me Polly," she answered defensively.

"And just because a stranger calls you Polly, is he to be turned loose

upon your friends?"

"_I_ didn't bring him here. I hope you're not blaming _me_, Rosalind!"

"No-o; of course I didn't mean that. But how was I to know he wasn't

Billy Kellogg?"

"I don't suppose you could tell," admitted Polly. "Is--is he nice?"

"He is the stupidest and most hopeless creature I ever talked to!"

Polly sighed.

"You must go to him and demand an explanation," added Rosalind.

"I? Why, Rosalind, that's impossible! I don't even know the man!"

Rosalind regarded the plump, young person with severity.

"But _you_ have given him the very last word in introductions!" she

exclaimed. "You pretended you knew him. Mrs. Witherbee and everybody

else have taken him at face value. You passed him without even a

challenge. Are you going to allow this stranger to live here and call

you Polly? Why--why, it may make you _particeps criminis_!"

Polly's lower lip quivered.

"I--I couldn't think of anything else to do," she faltered. "Oh,

Rosalind, you must help me!"

"It looks as if we must help each other," declared Rosalind. "We simply

cannot allow this man to impose upon the Witherbees."

Polly was on the brink of tears. She was thoroughly frightened. Not

until Rosalind, in self-defense, had placed the burden upon her did she

realize the enormity involved in her recognition of the stranger. It

was a mere procrastination, of course, due to bewilderment; but it had

served as an authoritative introduction for the impostor.

"Mr. Morton!" exclaimed Polly suddenly.

"Well?"

"But they'll meet--don't you see? And they're supposed to know each

other!"

"True," murmured Rosalind. "I'd forgotten that. Well, we've got to

face it. Let's go and see what has happened."

Polly shrank back.

"You go," she begged.

"We'll go together," said Rosalind firmly. "We must see it through."

"But--"

"And listen! Not a word of explanation, unless something has already

happened. Understand? No! Not a word! Go on calling him Billy. Keep

it up until we find out something."

"I--I can't," wailed Polly.

"Nonsense!" Rosalind was losing patience. "Didn't I travel all the way

down from Clayton with him, talking to him just as if he were really Mr.

Kellogg? It's a pity if you can't help a little--after deliberately

turning him loose on this island."

"Why not ex--expose him?"

"Not yet! We must find out some things first. We must know what it all

means. Come now! For Heaven's sake, brace up, Polly! Nobody has been

murdered yet."

"I'm afraid!"

"Then let me take the responsibility," declared Rosalind in a disgusted

tone. "Only you've simply got to play your part--now that you've

started it."

She seized the trembling Polly by the arm and started her at a rapid

pace toward the house. Rosalind was bewildered not less than her

companion, but she betrayed the fact by no outward sign. Even in the

face of possible disaster, resolution did not desert her. Besides, her

anger was still hot at the deception practised by the pudgy young man

who was now so inadvertently a guest of the island.

Polly's efforts to hang back were ineffectual. There was grim energy in

Rosalind's grip, so that the unwilling young woman found herself

propelled forward, despite her vanished courage.

The Kellogg impostor was the center of a group on the porch. As they

joined it, Mr. Morton approached from the other direction. The stout

visitor was mopping his brow assiduously and answering questions in

monosyllables. He seemed unable decide between his feet, for he stood

first upon one, then upon the other, but never upon both at the same

time.

Rosalind and Polly appeared, he observed them with an alarmed and

imploring glance. Polly's eyes did not meet his, but the cool stare of

her companion never winced.

"Here's Mr. Morton now!" exclaimed Mrs. Witherbee. "Of course, you know

each other. Oh, Mr. Morton! Mr. Kellogg is here!"

Morton glanced casually over the head of the Perkins boy and studied the

newcomer for a brief instant.

"By Jove, Kellogg, but I'm glad to see you!" he drawled.

The words were accompanied by the thrusting forth of a long arm, the

hand attached to which seized the limp fingers of Kellogg. That young

man permitted his jaw to drop an inch, where it hung, irresolute.

"Why--hello, Morton," he murmured.

"Glad you've joined us, I'm sure," said the Englishman unemotionally.

"Awfully glad. How's New York?"

"F-fine!"

"And business?"

"Oh--er--excellent."

Rosalind was too deeply engrossed in the exchange of greetings to notice

that Polly's hand was clasping her own with desperate energy. The

haughty lady whom everybody wished to marry was dumfounded.

Morton had accepted the stranger! Morton--who knew as well as Polly

that this was not the Billy Kellogg from whom he had won a year's

income!

What _did_ it mean?

"Mr. Kellogg is up to take charge of his uncle's place while Mr.

Davidson is away," explained Mrs. Witherbee, breathing a soft sigh of

gratification at the absence of animosity between these knights of the

gaming-table.

Perspiration streamed down the cheeks of the stout young man. He stared

at Morton with the fascination of a bird looking upon the mythically

hypnotic serpent. His glance finally wavered and met that of Rosalind.

She saw the muscles of his jaw tighten, and watched him while he

breathed deeply.

"Oh, I say," he began. "Something's wrong. I--"

Rosalind's head was moving slowly from side to side, and her glare was

truly ferocious. The young man stopped. Then all traces of resolution

wilted.

"Wrong?" asked Mrs. Witherbee anxiously.

"Why--er--you see--"

He gulped and looked again at Rosalind. Her head was still moving, and

her lips were grim.

"What I meant was, Uncle Henry said there was something wrong at the

island, and--well, you see, he wanted me to look out for it."

"What's wrong?" demanded the voice of Reginald Williams.

Unanimous dismay overspread the faces of the group. They remembered

Reggy's heart!

"Nothing at all," said Rosalind coolly, as she stabbed the stout young

man with a warning glance. "What Mr. Kellogg meant was that his uncle is

engaged in some agricultural experiments, and that when he was called

away it was necessary to have somebody there to look after them. So Mr.

Kellogg came up."

It was a shot in the air, but Rosalind felt that agriculture was safe

and non-exciting. The members of the group breathed again and looked at

her in admiration. The stranger was also staring at her without

comprehension.

"Agricultural experiments!" snorted Reggy.

"Certainly," said Rosalind freezingly. "Exactly that. He is

experimenting with a new kind of cauliflower. It's very delicate, and

it has to be looked after whenever there is the least danger of frost.

That's why he wanted--burlap. Isn't it, Mr. Kellogg?"

"Why--yes," the fat youth assented faintly.

Once more Rosalind received a tribute from grateful eyes, but this time

they contained astonishment as well as gratitude. She accepted the

homage complacently. The role for which she had cast Reggy Williams was

still his.

"After tea," suggested Mrs. Witherbee, "if it's really necessary, you

can have the launch and go over to look after the cauliflower."

"It's not necessary!" exclaimed Kellogg hastily. "It's not a bit chilly

this afternoon--not a bit."

Rosalind gently detached Polly from the circle and led her along the

porch.

"Get that man aside," she ordered, "and pump him."

Polly quailed.

"You must! We've simply got to find out something about him. And

you're the only one to do it; you're supposed to know him."

"But--did you see Mr. Morton? He recognized him."

"He pretended to," declared Rosalind. "And that's one of the things I

want to know something about. That makes two people who have pretended

to know him. Are you quite sure, Polly, that you're not mistaken?"

"Rosalind!"

"Oh, well, I suppose you're not. At any rate, it's your business to do

some investigating."

"But I don't know what to ask."

"Heavens, Polly! There are a lot of things to find out. Who is he?

What is he here for? Why did he pretend to know you? Why did Mr.

Morton pretend to know him? Where is Billy Kellogg? How did a telegram

to Kellogg fall into his hands? Why, he may have murdered Kellogg!"

Polly shrieked faintly.

"Of course, I don't believe he did," added Rosalind contemptuously.

"That man, whoever he is, wouldn't murder a rabbit. But there's

something exceedingly strange about the whole affair, and it is our

business to find out what it means. Go and get him!"

"But what shall I say?" wailed Polly.

Rosalind sighed hopelessly.

"Go and ask him anything," she said. "Take him down to the summer-house

to see the river--anything, I tell you! And then pump--pump--_pump_!"

Polly Dawson shivered, but obeyed. When it amounted to a clash of

wills, Rosalind was irresistible.

The latter lady watched the couple depart in the direction of the

summer-house and smiled resignedly. Polly was so literal! Had it been

her own task, Rosalind would have taken him to the first available

place--anywhere that was beyond ear-shot of the others. But Polly

needed a sailing-chart and a compass.

Rosalind managed a meeting with Mr. Morton, but it resulted in no

information, because she did not choose to acquaint that gentleman with

the fact that she knew the Kellogg to be spurious. And Morton

volunteered nothing. So far as the surface of him went, the meeting had

not occasioned even a ripple.

it was half an hour later when Polly reappeared and beckoned Rosalind to

a corner of the porch.

"He's--he's not Billy Kellogg!" whispered Polly triumphantly.

Rosalind regarded her with a minute of patience and pity.

"Is _that_ all you learned?" she asked.

"He admitted it!"

"Of course he did. What of that? You knew it, anyhow, didn't you?"

"Ye-es--but he confessed."

"And what else did he confess?"

"Nothing."

An exasperated gasp was Rosalind's only comment.

"He--he said he couldn't explain," added Polly in an agitated voice.

"And he seemed so nervous about it that I felt sorry for him. Truly I

did, Rosalind."

"I haven't the least doubt," icily. "Tell me exactly what you said."

"He said it first. He said that he knew that I knew that he wasn't

Billy Kellogg, and I admitted that I did know it, and that I thought

that he knew I knew it. And then before I could say anything, he said

that he couldn't explain, and he hoped I would not say

anything--particularly to you. He--he seemed to be afraid of you,

Rosalind. And, of course, after he said he couldn't explain, I couldn't

very well ask him. Now, could I?"

"Of course not," said Rosalind in a withering voice.

"And he doesn't look like a murderer either, Rosalind; so I didn't ask

him about that. He said he'd explain as soon as he could, and he wanted

to know what Mr. Morton thought about him. I told him I thought Mr.

Morton probably thought what you did. Was that right?"

"I am not accountable for Mr. Morton's thoughts."

"At any rate, I'm sure he won't do any harm, Rosalind--he seems so

dreadfully embarrassed."

"And after talking to him for half an hour, you haven't the least idea

who he is or why he came here?" Rosalind demanded.

"I--I'm afraid not."

Rosalind threw her hands wide in a gesture of hopelessness.

"What do you propose to do about this--impostor?" she demanded. "You

are the person chiefly responsible. You permitted Mrs. Witherbee to

receive him."

"Why don't _you_ expose him?" asked Polly meekly.

Rosalind ignored the inquiry.

"Besides," added Polly, "he says he will go away to-morrow."

"He will _not_!" exclaimed Rosalind.

"You mean--"

"I mean that he will not leave this island until we know something about

him if I have to sit up by myself and watch him."

Polly uttered an exclamation of awe.

"The man's an impostor--probably a thief," added Rosalind. "Do you

suppose I shall permit him to go as he came? I think _not_!"

"You think we ought to tell the others?"

"Not yet. There is only one thing to do for the present--watch. That

will be your business and mine. We must see to it that this man is not

allowed to go away until everything is explained. Meanwhile, we will

send for the person who is evidently the principal one to be

concerned--Mr. Davidson."

"And wait?"

"Certainly. It cannot be very long. I shall telegraph to Mr. Davidson

this evening; right away, in fact. It will not be difficult to reach

him on the train. And we will keep this man here until Mr. Davidson

returns."

"Suppose he will not stay, Rosalind?" ventured Polly timidly.

"Leave that to me. He'll stay!"

*CHAPTER XIX*

*STUNG!*

Rosalind not only wired to Mr. Davidson but, as an afterthought, she

sent a message to Hastings & Hatch. The answer to the latter came

promptly the following forenoon.

It did not serve to restore her equanimity. It described William Kissam

Kellogg minutely, as Rosalind had requested, and the description was a

photographic likeness of the young man who had confessed to Polly that

he was no such person.

"Nothing to do but wait for Mr. Davidson," said Rosalind.

She spent some of the time, when it was not devoted to standing watch

upon the stranger, in writing. After the call of the customs agents at

Witherbee's Island, Rosalind had begun the preparation of a memorandum.

It had already reached a length of several pages; there were daily

additions. Also, there were classifications, thus:

What I Really Did.

What They Think I Did.

What I Know about Certain Things and Persons.

What I Must Find Out About Them.

What Must Never Be Found Out About Me.

Things That I Have Said (for reference in

connection with other things I may have to say before

this is over)

Suspicions That I Have.

Under the last head there was much writing, for Rosalind's mind was as

crowded with suspicions as that of a crowned head is thronged with

troubles. It was not strange, of course, that a large part of the

memorandum dealt with the boatman. At every turn and corner of it his

name and his deeds intruded.

But there were some things that Rosalind, even in the privacy of her

diary, would not suffer herself to commit to plain English. These were

represented by a cipher code, the key to which lay only in her memory.

For instance, a Maltese cross represented her experience in the tree; a

star the shower-bath that came from the boatman's bucket, an asterisk

the dance at the hotel where she found herself in the arms of Sam. All

this was by way of mitigating the disaster that would befall if her

memorandum chanced to come to the eyes of another.