than difficult. Most of the time he sat on the porch, staring at the
lawn with inconsolable eyes. He made not the slightest attempt to
escape; rather, he appeared to be in a sort of stupor. Polly felt sorry
for him; Rosalind had only contempt.
A day passed thus and a second began with the young man still sitting
and staring. Even Mrs. Witherbee granted that he was an unhappy
acquisition, while everybody was unanimous in agreeing that work had
produced an appalling effect upon Kellogg.
It was mid-morning when Rosalind, unable longer to endure the sight--she
classified him as a vegetable--left Polly on guard and betook herself to
the river. One thing she wanted was her bracelet. Of the boatman she
had seen nothing; he had made no effort to restore her property.
With an intent that was really subconscious, she rowed one of the light
skiffs in the direction of his island. There was also something
mechanical rather than deliberate in the act of her landing there,
making fast her boat, and ascending the path that led to his shack.
Only the sound of voices awakened her from a day-dream.
She halted and listened. One of the voices was unmistakably that of
Sam. The other, subdued and indifferent in tone, she finally identified
as that of Mr. Morton.
Now all of her senses were alert and tingling. Perhaps it was a chance
meeting; perhaps a plot; perhaps--
But it might be any one of so many things that it was not worth while to
speculate. It was entirely a matter for observation.
Rosalind advanced cautiously, taking care that no stick snapped or stone
rolled underfoot, and keeping herself screened behind the small trees
and bushes that sheltered the path. Presently she sighted them. The
spectacle was one that surprised her.
Sam and the Englishman were seated on the ground, facing each other.
Between them lay a folded blanket. The boatman was shuffling a pack of
cards.
"What I can't make out," Sam was saying, "is the luck of it--you walking
right into my parlor, just as the fly went calling on the spider, and
without an invitation at that. I'd been trying to think up a scheme to
get you here, and, by jingo! you save me the trouble."
"Um--ah--just rowing about a bit, you know. Exercise and that sort of
thing. Saw your island, and came ashore to have a look."
"And you didn't know it was my hangout, eh?"
The boatman was watching the Englishman closely.
"'Pon my word, no! Awfully sorry I've intruded."
"Intruded! Man alive, you're as welcome as good news! Sit still; you
positively mustn't be going yet. I insist. I hear you're something of
a card-player. That's why-- Confound that pack! My fingers are like
thumbs lately."
The boatman gathered up the scattered pack and resumed his shuffling.
"You are about to make the acquaintance," he said, "of that certain
branch of the great American sport known as freeze-out. You have ten
chips; I have ten. Your chips are worth a thousand each; you'll have to
take my word for it that mine are worth the same. The limit is anything
you have in sight."
Morton yawned.
"Really," he drawled, "I'm not interested, you know."
"You will be," the boatman reassured him. "It's going to be highly
interesting. Will you cut?"
"Rather, I think I'll say good day," and Morton made as if to rise.
Then Rosalind noticed that a pistol lay at the boatman's side and that
his hand sought it. Morton observed the movement, too, for with a bored
sigh he settled back on his crossed legs.
"I'll cut," he said.
The boatman dealt and picked up his hand. For a few seconds his
antagonist seemed not to know the purpose of the five cards that lay,
face downward, before him; then he lifted them languidly.
"I say," he yawned, "is a pair any good in this game?"
"Not too good," answered the boatman cheerfully. "How many?"
Morton took three, while Sam contented himself with one.
The Englishman tossed a chip into the center of the blanket, the boatman
two.
"Er--what should I do now?" inquired the prisoner listlessly.
"Quit, call, or raise--anything you please."
"To call is--er--to equal the amount of your stake?"
"You've got the idea."
Morton added a chip to the pot and laid a pair of eights on the blanket.
The boatman displayed tens up and nonchalantly raked four chips toward
himself.
"Your deal," he said, tossing the cards across.
Rosalind frowned as she stared at the Englishman.
"I am afraid he is a fool, after all," she thought. "Why didn't he--"
The Englishman was dealing abstractedly. He had to be reminded to look
at his own hand.
Sam drew three cards, Morton three. This time three of the Englishman's
chips crossed the blanket to the other side. He showed not even a pair.
"It's plain robbery," whispered Rosalind to herself. "The man doesn't
know the first thing about poker. Can they really be serious?"
A second look at the boatman's pistol reminded her that they probably
were.
For five minutes the game progressed. Twice, by an accident of fate,
the Englishman gathered the pot, but for the most part his own pile was
receding chip by chip. Even in his winning moments he seemed bored
almost to the point of somnolence. The boatman alternately grinned and
whistled.
"I'll just tap you for what you've got," Sam said after examining his
final draw. "Two checks, I believe."
"This is a deuced stupid game, you know," remarked Morton as he pushed
the last of his stack to the center.
"Doesn't strike you quite so favorably as bridge, eh?"
"Rather--not."
"Do you happen to have anything as good as three of a kind?"
Morton looked down at his cards as if he had just discovered them.
"Er--what would you make of them?" he asked, displaying them.
Rosalind gasped. She could see the hand from where she stood. It
contained not even a pair!
"I'd make a resolution to quit," advised the boatman as he took the last
of the chips. "This freezes you."
"Can't say I think much of your American game," and Morton yawned again
prodigiously. "Ah--how much?"
"You've lost ten thousand, my friend."
"Really, now?"
"Honest and truly."
The boatman's hand crept toward his revolver. With a listless shrug
Morton began feeling in an inner pocket. Presently he drew forth a
wallet.
"The idiot!" fumed Rosalind. "He's been swindled!"
A moment's search within the folds of the leather resulted in the
appearance of an oblong slip of paper. Glancing casually at it, Morton
handed it to the boatman. The latter examined it closely, then looked
up with a smile.
"I--er--think you'll find it good," drawled Morton.
"I'll take a chance," said Sam as he thrust the paper into the pocket of
his shirt. "Mighty nice of you to carry this around with you. But let
me give you a chunk of advice. Next time you trim a guy at bridge,
either keep your mouth shut about it or don't carry the stuff around
with you. You are liable to tempt some of us poker kings."
"Ah--thanks, by Jove! Not a bad idea, that. You'll not be wanting me
now, I take it?"
"School's out."
The boatman rose to his feet.
The placidity of Morton was undisturbed as he stood and flecked a few
patches of dust from his trousers.
"I'll be going, if you don't mind," he remarked. "My boat's at the other
end of the island."
Although the affair was none of hers, Rosalind found herself angry. If
there was one thing that annoyed her beyond endurance, it was sheer
stupidity. She believed she had just witnessed the apotheosis of it.
Yet something struck her oddly as the Englishman turned and walked away.
She was quite sure that she heard him chuckle. The boatman must have
heard the same thing, for he stared after Morton curiously.
"A bad check, I'll wager," whispered Rosalind to herself. "But where
was the sense in the whole affair, anyhow? Never mind; it's not my
business. But I want my bracelet."
She stepped from her concealment, and an instant later the boatman
turned at the sound of her footsteps.
"Hello!" he said cordially. "You just missed the performance."
"My bracelet, please," was Rosalind's only remark.
"Why, I'd clean forgotten it, ma'am."
"You haven't--lost it?"
"No fear; it's safe."
He turned and entered the cabin, appearing a moment later with the
golden circlet lying in his palm. Rosalind seized it with more joy than
dignity. The touch of it, as she snapped it about her arm, was
exhilarating. Her eyes shone with the light of triumph.
The boatman watched the expressive pantomime with evident approval.
"You're rather lucky to get it, in a way," he said. "I've just been
taking a chance at freeze-out, and if I'd lost I guess it would have
been up to me to fork over the bracelet as part payment."
Rosalind made no pretense of being startled at the idea. She knew he
was capable of no such infamy, no matter what he might be.
"I saw what happened," she remarked.
"Oh, did you?"
"I saw you steal ten thousand dollars."
The boatman studied her quizzically.
"And never made a move to stop me," he commented.
She winced, but decided to ignore the implication.
"I didn't steal it, ma'am," he added. "Poker's a perfectly fair game.
I didn't stack the cards; I didn't shove a cold deck at him."
"Fair! When he didn't know the first principles of it?"
"He certainly didn't play as if he did," admitted Sam. "But if he
didn't know poker, he had no business to sit in the game."
"Not with a gun at his head?"
"Hum! I'd forgotten the gun. I suppose that did have something to do
with it. It wasn't loaded, though."
"It was no better than stealing. It _was_ stealing."
"Funny thing about it," mused the boatman, as if he did not hear her,
"but he didn't seem to care much, one way or the other. Why, he yawned
in my face, ma'am."
The creature baffled her completely.
"Have you no compunctions whatever about the manner in which you took
his money?" she asked curiously.
"Compunctions--about him? I'm afraid not. He stole it in the first
place, didn't he?"
"He won it--fairly!" exclaimed Rosalind. "You knew he had it, and you've
been plotting and planning to get it for days and days."
"Maybe," he admitted.
"I hope the check he gave you is bad," she added viciously.
"That would be a horse on me; wouldn't it, ma'am? But that's a chance
that folks like you and me have to run. Still, I heard he stole it, or
what amounts to the same thing."
"I tell you he didn't!"
"You seem mighty sure about that. How do you know, ma'am?"
"Because Mr. Kellogg told me so."
"Kellogg?"
"Yes; he's here."
The boatman eyed her for several seconds.
"He is staying at Mr. Witherbee's," she added.
Of course, Rosalind knew that this was a fib; but somebody who called
himself Kellogg was staying there, at any rate, and she saw no need of
explaining to Sam.
"So Kellogg's here, is he?" he remarked. "I suppose he came back to
have another try at the Englishman. That'll be hard luck for Kellogg,
because I think his lordship is about cleaned, ma'am."
"He came for no such purpose," declared Rosalind, half wondering why she
was hastening to the defense of an impostor. "Mr. Kellogg
has--reformed."
"Reformed? Was he-- Hum! Well--was he one of us?"
Rosalind's cheeks flamed.
"He was a good-for-nothing idle gambler!" she explained.
"Oh!" said the boatman in a relieved tone. "He's turned over a new leaf,
eh?"
"He's very much engrossed in his new work.
"What's he doing here, then?"
"His uncle sent for him."
Again the boatman appeared to reflect.
"What for?" he asked.
"To look after his island while he is away. Mr. Davidson has gone to
Denver. And Mr. Kellogg is going to try to put an end to all these
burglaries. So there's a warning for you."
He pondered the warning and wrinkled his forehead.
"Customs officers still hanging around?" he asked.
"I am told they are."
"And that Canadian spy-chaser--is he still on the job?"
"I saw the launch again yesterday."
"Is Davidson's police patrol cruising, too?"
"Of course. And they've put on another boat."
Rosalind noted with satisfaction that he was showing traces of
worriment.
"I expect that's going to make things pretty warm," he observed.
"Dangerous!" she supplemented.
"You'd advise flitting, then, ma'am?"
"Beyond all question. And--well, it's only because of the bracelet that
I give you this warning."
"It's certainly kind of you--mighty kind."
Rosalind felt that the sword no longer dangled over her head by a single
hair.
"You're a good, square pal to tip me off," he went on. "I guess you're
dead right about it. The jig's up for us.
"Yes, ma'am. We'd better blow."
"_We!_"
"We'll be starting in a few minutes. It never pays to stick around
after the last hand's played."
Rosalind was tongue-tied with astonishment.
*CHAPTER XX*
*"GOOD WORK, PAL!"*
"You see," Sam went on, seemingly unaware of her consternation, "it's
foolish to take any more chances than are absolutely necessary. Now that
we've got a fairly good stake, it would be silly to wait. We'll run
over to the American side somewhere, and once we get ashore there's
small chance of getting pinched."
"Are you utterly mad?" asked Rosalind, abruptly finding her voice.
"Mad? I should say not, ma'am. Just cautious--that's all. I'd be mad
if I stayed."
"But you are saying that I--"
"That you are going with me. Certainly. Why not?"
Rosalind was not frightened, yet something in his tone chilled her. She
examined his face with searching eyes. He seemed to be quite composed;
there was no trace of wildness in his eyes, no betrayal of mental
agitation in his speech. Were it not for his astounding words, she
would have considered him entirely normal. She decided to laugh, but
the attempt was poor. His was infinitely more successful.
"It may be a little sudden, ma'am," he admitted; "but it seems a case
for quick action. I'm sorry we won't even be able to stop at
Witherbee's for your trunks."
She decided to try a reasonable tone.
"Think what you are saying," she advised, controlling her voice. "It is
quite impossible--this thing you propose. But, of course, you're not
serious."
"Never more serious in my life."
The look in his eyes gave her a twinge of alarm.
"But don't you see--Sam--"
"That's the first time you've called me by name," he interrupted with a
bow. "Thanks, partner."
"But don't you see there is no reason whatever for me to go."
Rosalind was trying to talk to him as if he were a petulant child to be
placated, or a lunatic to be argued with until help arrived.
"There's every reason," he answered. "Pals should stick together."
"But you know--seriously--that I am not your--pal!"
The vulgar word passed her lips reluctantly.
"But you are, ma'am; the best I ever had. I guess I could name a dozen
instances of it. Want me to go over them? First, there's--"
"You need not. It's too absurd. I shall go at once."
"Not till I go," he told her firmly. "As I was going to say when you
interrupted me, ma'am, we'll make a break for the American shore, and as
soon as we can get a license and a justice of the peace or minister,
why--"
"Stop!"
"We'll get married."
Rosalind turned pale. Truly she was dealing with a madman on this
lonely little island!
"Married!"
"Why, certainly! What else? You don't suppose I'm going to lose a pal
like you?"
The boatman was so calm that his manner utterly disconcerted her. A
rational exterior, she reflected, often cloaked the most dangerous forms
of insanity.
"But I have no intention of marrying--anybody."
"That's been the trouble all along," he assured her. "You've had so
many offers that you don't take them seriously any longer. But this is
different. This isn't an offer, ma'am; it's just a plain announcement
of what's going to happen. We're going to be married."
She glanced swiftly through the trees in the direction of the river.
There was not a boat within hailing distance.
"It's this way," he went on easily. "You've helped me out of a few
tight places. I've helped you once, at least. We're a great team, and
there's nothing like teamwork in our business. I don't mind saying I'm
strong for you. You have got good nerve; when you make up your mind to
anything, you're apt to get it.
"You and I can go a long way together. I'll admit we may quarrel some,
but that'll be your fault. You've got a hair-trigger tongue, ma'am. But
I won't mind that; I'm getting used to it. The point is, when we get
working together we're able to deliver the goods.
"You wouldn't expect me to lose a good pal, would you? Of course not.
And I can't see myself doing it, either. It's true that the jig is up
here. But it's a wide, wide world, pal. Shall we be going?"
"Do you suppose for one instant," said Rosalind, trying to hide the real
terror in her voice, "that I am going to marry--_you_?"
"I'm sure of it," he said confidently. "Why not, ma'am? We won't
starve--and I say that without the least idea of tapping your bank-roll.
You can keep it soaked away, if you want to. I've got a nice little
stake now." He touched the pocket where Morton's check reposed.
"That'll last us a good while," he continued, "and it's a sure thing
we'll turn off some kind of a job before that's gone. Why, just think!
With my experience and your social drag--"
"Stop!"
There was absolute desperation in her voice.
"Not much time to lose," he advised, glancing at a nickeled watch. "No
telling but that Englishman'll be stirring up some sort of trouble for
us."
Wrath triumphed at last despite Rosalind's efforts to be self-contained.
"You common thief!" she cried, stamping her foot and glaring. "How dare
you insult me so? You burglar! You blackmailer! You--"
"Spy and smuggler," he supplied. "May as well get the whole list out of
your system, ma'am. I don't mind; I keep my temper better than you do.
"But don't forget that I'm talking facts, while you're just barking at
the moon. I hate to disappoint you, in one way; but your scalping days
are over, ma'am. You've had your last proposal. I don't doubt you've
turned down a lot of pretty good scouts, but you won't turn down any
more. That's a cinch, as far as I can see now.
"You had your last proposal--unless there's been one since--when the
Englishman got so enthusiastic over you. I heard it, you know. You
threw him rather hard. You did the same for Reggy, less than half an
hour before. And I understand there's been a long string of them.
Well, you're at the end of the string."
He grinned complacently.
"You needn't shout," he added. "You're not getting a chance to turn me
down. This is no proposal, ma'am. This is what you might call an
order, if I have to speak plain. It don't require any answer. It's not
up to you to say yes or no; all you have to do is to come along like a
good pal."
Rosalind shrank backward a step. At last she was genuinely frightened,
for Sam possessed all the calm of a terrible madness.
"What a fool I'd be to let you go!" he added reflectively. "And--not to
flatter myself--what a fool you'd be to miss a chance like this! We've
just got to know each other's ways; we're like wheels in the same clock.
I need you; you need me.
"I'll admit you don't have to earn your living. But think of the fun you
miss when you don't! It gets mighty tiresome, standing on the outside
and looking in. What you and I need, ma'am, is excitement--plenty of
action--something to keep us on edge.
"You're what I call an emergency pal. You don't really begin to get
good until you're in a scrape. It takes trouble to start you going. But
when you do get started--if you don't mind my saying it, ma'am--you go
to it like the cat to the canary."
She scarcely heard his last words; her mind was intent on seeking some
avenue of escape. Tentatively, she edged toward the path that led to
the boat-landing. But the boatman understood and shook his head.
"When we go, we go together," he assured her. "That dress you're wearing
looks all right. Whatever you need in the line of clothes we can get
when we hit the mainland.
"As far as I'm concerned, all I have to do is to put on my hat. And
that's down in the boat, I think; if it isn't, it doesn't matter. We'll
start, I guess."
He turned toward the path and beckoned.
"I refuse to stir a foot!" exclaimed Rosalind.
She compressed her lips.
"That means carrying you, then, ma'am."
"You dare not touch me!"
"I hate to, but I'll have to, if you're not willing to walk."
"I will not go! It's--it's insanity!"
The boatman shrugged and advanced toward her.
She retreated a pace.
"If you dare--"
"Will you walk, then?"
"I'll find someway--"
"Once and for all, will you walk?"
She searched his eyes for some trace of insincerity or weakness, but
found none. A shudder of fear shook her. Then she rallied herself
angrily.
"I shall walk," she said coldly.
He nodded contentedly and led the way toward the landing. Rosalind
followed mechanically, but her brain was afire with activity. Beyond
doubt, the boatman had become insane; if, indeed, he had not been so
from the first.
But she realized that at times it was needful to humor an unbalanced
mind. For the present, she would accompany him; but surely there would
be an opportunity to escape. If she could obtain no aid from a passing
boat, at least there would be ample help when they reached the mainland.
"We'll take the old _Fifty-Fifty_," he remarked as he loosed the
painter. "It's better than rowing. And if anything goes wrong, why,
you're here to fix it. By the way, what do you want me to call you,
ma'am, Rosie?"
She glared at him.
"No? Rosalind, maybe? It's a little long; but it'll do, I suppose.
It's shorter than saying Miss Chalmers, anyhow. But it's not as short
as pal. I rather like that, myself. But you seem to be touchy about
it."
Rosalind stepped aboard the launch without answering.
She prayed that the engine might not start; but the prayer was
unanswered, for it purred happily at the first turn of the fly-wheel.
The launch backed out into the stream. An instant later it described a
half-circle, then started eastward.
"We'll hit the trail for Ogdensburg," said the boatman. "Plenty of
preachers there."
"Are you aware of the fact," remarked Rosalind, with a sudden smile of
triumph, "that before you drag me to a preacher you must drag me to some
town clerk or other person and obtain a license?"
To her annoyance, he appeared neither surprised nor dismayed.
"It's just another step in the journey," he said carelessly. "I'll
admit that this license game is sometimes a spoil-sport on romance. But
you haven't got me there. You'll agree! You'll step right up to the
captain's office and take your little oath without saying a word. A
good pal never welches."
"I shall most certainly turn you over to the police at the first
opportunity."
"No," he said confidently, with a shake of his head; "you won't do
anything of the kind. Why, ma'am, you're the pal who keeps me out of
the hands of the police! You're an expert at it. I'm proud of you.
"You see, if one of us got pinched, the other would have to go along,
too; I'm strong for sticking together. You understand--for better or
for worse, ma'am. I think that's the way they say it.
"And if they should happen to pinch you, it would be real embarrassing,
I expect. They'd start finding things out, maybe; all about lots of
things that have happened to you and me. My, but that would be a piece
for the papers! Head-lines and pictures and artists drawing little
sketches of Rosalind, the 'Regal Lady,' sitting in a tree and burgling a
house and bossing a gas-engine and--"
"Stop!"
"Oh, all right; I'll stop! I expected you to get the idea. You're not
much of a hand for getting laughed at, I notice. And folks might laugh
if they read the papers. You've got a kind of a long name for a
big-type head-line, too; some printer-chap might chop it down to Rosie
in order to make it fit."
The boatman grinned and reached over to advance the spark.
Rosalind turned her back upon him--this One-Cylinder Sam who meant to
marry her--and gazed despairingly across the water. By sheer perversity
of fate, there was not a boat within half a mile. Ogdensburg meant a run
of several hours, even at the best gait of the _Fifty-Fifty_. It might
be dark when they arrived. She imagined the panic on Witherbee's Island
when nightfall came without her.
Sam lighted his pipe and sat hunched over the tiller, smoking
thoughtfully. For a quarter of an hour he appeared to pay no attention
to anything save the back of Rosalind's head. Then something caused him
to glance upward at the sky, then at the horizon that lay behind them.
He wrinkled his forehead and put aside his pipe.
It was scarcely mid-afternoon, but daylight was failing rapidly.
Rosalind herself, although wholly concerned with her absurd and perhaps
dangerous plight, presently noticed the change in the sky. A swift
survey of a great bank of black and lead-colored clouds ended with a
glance at the boatman.
"Squall coming," he admitted, with a nod.
She experienced a feeling of elation. A squall might mean anything but
a license and a parson. It was a storm that saved Britain from the
Armada.
Sam, however, made no alteration in his course. Frequently he glanced
over his shoulder, but soon this maneuver became unnecessary, for the
battle-front of the squall had advanced with such appalling rapidity
that it now overhung them, like some monster destroyer of the air. As
yet, however, there was no breath of wind.
"You'll make an island?" Rosalind suggested.
"She'll ride it out," he said confidently. "I've been out in 'em
before."
Rosalind measured the low free-board of the launch with a doubtful eye.
She was still triumphant in what she felt would abruptly shatter the mad
plans of the boatman, yet she was sensibly uneasy at the fairly
ferocious aspect of the storm.
"Better make a landing," she warned.
"Afraid?"
She turned her back upon him.
Half a mile astern a long, white line extended itself across the river.
Beyond it the boatman could not see, for all was murk and grayness and
ominous opacity. Then the white line seemed to leap forward at a
furious pace. The speed of the launch was as nothing to it.
Suddenly the steersman seemed to awake. He chewed his under lip
anxiously as he watched the onrush of the line of foam.
"Worse than I thought," he muttered. "I'm a fool."
A quarter of a mile to his left lay an island, but he knew there was not
a chance in a thousand of making the lee of it. Besides, to alter the
course meant taking the squall abeam, with a swift ending of the voyage
in mid-river.
"Come aft here!" he commanded.
Rosalind turned and studied the white line. It was not more than a
hundred yards distant. Without a word she obeyed him.
He motioned her to a seat beside him, and as she sat down passed an arm
around her shoulders.
"Sit tight, pal," he said. "And if it gets too bad, there's a
life-preserver under your feet."
The change is his tone impressed her for the moment far more than
threatened perils. All the banter and sarcasm had vanished from his
voice. He spoke gravely, almost grimly.
"I shall not need it," she answered. "I swim."
"We may be in a bad fix," he said, his lips close to her ear. "If it
was anybody but you I wouldn't admit it. But you're game. It'll blow
hard and get rough. I'm sorry--"
The remainder of the sentence she could not near, for the white line had
overtaken them. The storm-front delivered a blow like a battering-ram,
a blow in which wind, hail, sea, and a stifling smother of froth seemed
welded into one sinister and mighty weapon. The launch staggered, then
leaped forward.
Rosalind felt a cruel beating of ice-shrapnel upon her face, her arms,
her thinly clad shoulders. In an effort to give her shelter the boatman
drew her head down against his flannel shirt. One hand was needed for
the tiller, for the clumsy power-boat was yawing and swaying, and at
every lurch struggled, as if with deliberate purpose, to offer her beam
to the storm.
He steered wholly by instinct. Every landmark and island had been
blotted out as if swept from the surface of the river. Even the bow of
the launch was no longer visible.
The boatman sat with his feet braced against a cleat, his body swaying
with the roll of the seas. He squinted through half-closed eyes, but
saw nothing save a fury of white water and driving hail. Indeed, river
and air seemed to have merged into a whirling, stinging, vapory mass, in
the grip of which the launch was flung onward, so that at times she
seemed to fly, rather than float.
Rosalind was glad to hide her face, not because she feared to look upon
the fury that encompassed them, but to shield it from the bitter
volleying of the hail. It seemed not to descend from sky to earth, but
to travel horizontally, with the velocity and flat trajectory of a
rifle-bullet.
Flying water smote her when the wind sliced the crests from waves and
flung them aboard across the stern of the wallowing launch. The
boatman's grip tightened. Even in the din and ferocity of the storm she
found herself marveling at the power that lay in his slender but sinewy
arm.
His lips were against her ear.
"All right?" he shouted. "Just nod; don't try to talk!"
She nodded.
Another minute passed. There was no slackening in the onslaught. Once
the tiller was almost wrenched from Sam's hand by the impact of a sea
that caught the launch a quartering blow. It was nearly disaster, but
he managed to swing the stern to the wind again. Yet the blow had left
its mark. There was water now above the flooring.
As it swirled about Rosalind's feet she reached forward to where a tin
bucket lay. The boatman drew her back.
"No use!" he roared. "You can't bail!"
She accepted his decision without question, and again hid her face
against his breast.
"Get the life-preserver!"
She heard the command but dimly, though it was shouted directly into her
ear.
Rosalind shook her head. Of what use was a thing of cork and canvas out
there in the white fury?
"Get it!"
Again she shook her head. It was not merely the uselessness of the
thing that caused her stubborn refusal. It was the fact--and she was
calmly conscious of it, too--that there was only one life-preserver in
the boat.
Just why this influenced her was not clear in her mind, but she realized
with faint surprise that it did. She even found herself pondering over
it, telling herself that it was unethical to seize this lone chance that
offered itself only to her. Yet she was doubtful, too, that ethics had
anything to do with the matter.
The water in the cock-pit was deeper, and there was a growing
sluggishness in the movements of the launch that she noted as quickly as
the boatman himself.
"Rosalind!"
She lifted her head slightly.
"For Heaven's sake, put it on!"
"No!" she cried almost fiercely.
She felt the grip of his arm tighten convulsively. Something that
sounded like a sob came from his throat.
"It's your one chance!" he shouted.
She shook her head.
Then for a brief instant some freak of the gale tore a great rent in the
curtain of hail that shrouded them. The boatman's straining eyes had a
vision of black rocks fairly in the path of his storm-harried craft.
The murk closed in again.
"We're going ashore!" he roared.
Rosalind nodded.
"In half a minute--not more!"
Again she signed that she understood.
"Listen!" His lips were bellowing the words into her ear. "I'll steer
until we're ready to hit. Then I'll rush you forward and get you ashore
somehow. Understand?"
She nodded.
"Be ready!"
Now he prayed for another glimpse of the goal that lay ahead, but it was
denied him. He could only calculate its nearness; nay, could do little
more than guess. Second by second they were closing upon it, yet he
dared not release the tiller, for if the launch yawed before she struck
she might never strike at all. Safety or disaster lay in the barrier
toward which they were sweeping, he knew not which.
But his plans were swiftly made. The woman at his side would have the
best chance he could give her.
He tried counting the seconds, but this was useless. If he could but see
again for a single instant! It was death to start too soon; death to
wait too long. And he could only guess at the moment!
The tension snapped. Why--how--he did not know; the hail still half
blinded him. Yet he staggered to his feet, dragging her with him, and
rushed forward, knee-deep in the water that filled the rapidly settling
launch.
As he neared the bow a black wall sprang out of the gray mist. To
Rosalind it seemed to rear itself to an impossible height. The launch
lunged heavily toward it.
"Don't cling to me!" he shouted.
At the same instant she was lifted in his arms. As the boatman stepped
out upon the slippery, staggering deck the black wall hung over her.
Rosalind felt herself tossed into the air. For what seemed an
interminable period she hung suspended in space. Then something rose to
meet her feet with a jarring shock. She was standing on a ledge.
Below her, even above the roar of the wind, came the sound of a heavy,
crashing blow. The launch had struck. She knew what that meant. The
boatman had given her the one chance!
With a gasping sob she whirled about and stepped to the edge of the
rock.
"Sam!"
The hail beat upon her cheeks, but she did not feel it as she stared
downward at the frothing water. There was no sign of the launch.
"Sam!"
Her voice had risen to a shriek.
Something touched her foot--a hand!
She dropped to her knees and seized it in both hers. He was hanging in
mid air, the river lashing hungrily at his feet as his body swayed in
the gale.
Afterward he assured her it had been a matter of less than ten seconds.
To Rosalind it seemed an eternity. Some of it she achieved herself,
although she had no clear recollection as to how.
But he stood at last with the ledge under his feet.
And then, white-faced and laboring for breath, he grinned:
"Good work, pal!"
*CHAPTER XXI*
*NEW LIGHTS ON SAM*
For a little they stood upon the ledge, the storm beating into their
faces. Rosalind scarcely sensed the pounding of the hail. She and the
boatman had almost clasped hands with death, and the memory of it drove
other thoughts from her mind.
The trivial parts of the affair occupied a curiously exaggerated
importance in her reflections. She realized that it was absurdly
insignificant, yet she found herself considering chiefly, not the fact
that by any effort truly astonishing he had flung her to a refuge far
above the boiling river, but the mere incident that while she lay in his
arms his scrawny beard, cold and wet, had brushed her cheek--yes, even
his mustache. She wondered if he had really kissed her; she was not
sure. Nor--and this was another curiosity--did she seem to care.
She remembered, too, the stertorous whistling of his breath as he flung
her from him--the queer, Buddhalike appearance of his head, with the
hailstones matted among the hair--the way that his eyes blinked as the
water streamed down his forehead--the rough and sure clasp of his
arms--the fact that one of his feet slid several inches along the
rolling deck as he gathered himself for the last effort. All the little
things were photographed with microscopic fineness upon her mind.
"There must be better places than this," he suggested. "Come on."
He seized her by the arm, turning her toward a rocky slope that led
upward from the ledge. She shook herself free with an impatient energy,
resolved that she would do something for herself.
They scrambled up the slope and found themselves at the edge of a grove
of trees. Here at last was a partial shelter; they went in under the
branches.
Rosalind stumbled ahead, her soaked garments clinging to her legs with a
persistence that endeavored to trip her. Now and then a branch snapped
ominously above their heads, but they paid no attention to these
warnings of a new danger. It seemed like luxury to be shielded even
imperfectly from the relentless stabbing of the hail.
"Is it an island?" she asked.
"That's sure," said the boatman as they plunged forward through the
shrieking gloom.
"The--the boat is gone?"
She knew it without asking, yet the question rose mechanically to her
lips.
"Gone for good," he nodded. "That'll save you a whole lot of trouble, I
guess. I hated to see her go; you had that old carbureter adjusted to a
hair."
Rosalind smiled in spite of herself.
"The trouble was in the air-intake," she said as her foot struck sharply
against a root, almost upsetting her. "The mixture was too thin."
"I didn't know what it was. _Ouch!_ Caught that branch right in the
eye. But it was the new batteries that did the trick most of all."
"And a clean spark-plug," she added as a sudden gust flung her roughly
against a tree. "A dirty one is a crime."
"If I get another launch--I'll get a two-cylinder, and-- But then I
won't be One-Cylinder Sam, will I?"
"Get a four if you can afford it," she advised, pausing for an instant
to free her wet skirt from her ankles. "It'll burn a little more gas,
but you'll get more speed and less vibration-- Heavens!"
The latter exclamation came as she went headlong over a jutting stone.
He picked her up and steadied her on her feet; then, linking his arm in
hers, he urged her forward. The storm roared overhead, but they paid no
heed to it.
"Where are we going?" she asked after a little.
"Just going," he replied. "It's better than standing still."
They came to an open space, hesitated for an instant, then plunged out
from the shelter of the trees and crossed it. As they neared the
farther side a large, dim object barred their way.
"A house!" he exclaimed.
They broke into a run and stumbled up the steps that led to a porch.
Rosalind staggered to a willow rocking-chair that was swaying furiously
in the wind and sank into it. The boatman looked around him; then
grinned broadly.
"Well?" she demanded.
"It's Davidson's!"
The freak of fate that brought her and the boatman to the scene of his
escapades impressed her lightly at the time.
"We can get out of the storm then."
"You can, at any rate. Let's see."
He tried a door that stood back of her chair, but found it locked.
"This is the side of the house," he said. "Let's go around front."
She rose wearily and followed him along the porch. The front door was
locked also. He bade her wait while he went to the rear, but when he
returned it was with the news that all the entrances were fastened.
They tried ringing the bell, but it brought no response save the
clanging of a gong.
"Servants must be out," he commented. "Joy-riding in the yacht, I
suppose. Let's have a look at the windows."
They were fastened.
Rosalind began to shiver. The hail had changed into a downpour of rain,
but the wind showed no sign of slackening.
"I guess a locked house won't bother you and me," said the boatman, with
a laugh.
He walked to the nearest window, lifted his foot, and sent it crashing
through the glass. Through the opening he thrust an arm, slipped back
the fastening, and raised the sash.
"Welcome!" he called, beckoning to her.
Without hesitation Rosalind entered the house by way of the window. The
boatman followed her.
"So long as there's nobody home I'll come in myself," he said.
They were standing in the dining-room; even in the gloom of the interior
Rosalind could discern a shining of glass and silverware that stood on a
sideboard. Sam groped along the wall for an electric switch and,
finding it, turned on the lights.
"Let's try the library; there's a fireplace there," he said.
Rosalind remembered how he knew, but she felt it was not a time for
dwelling upon previous house-breakings. She followed him readily,
crossing a broad hall and entering a room where the floor was cushioned
with thick rugs.
The chimney-place had been set for a fire, but no match had been applied
to the kindlings. He found one on the center table, and Rosalind,
sighing contentedly, watched the red flames grow and spread.
Next he pushed a heavy leather chair across the floor close to the
hearth, and motioned her into it. She sat obediently and stretched her
feet close to the blaze. Without a word, he dropped to his knees and
began taking off her shoes.
[Illustration: Without a word he dropped on his knees and began taking
off her shoes]
She felt too comfortable to protest. Besides, he did it with the wholly
impersonal manner of a salesman; also, Rosalind reflected, it was a
sensible thing to do.
After he had placed her damp shoes close to the fire, at one side of the
hearth, he brought her a foot-stool. Then he disappeared in the
direction of the dining-room. When he returned he was carrying a tray,
upon which were a decanter and two glasses.
"Sherry?" he asked.
"Thank you."
She took the glass that he filled and sipped its contents. The boatman
helped himself.
"Still blowing," he commented as he watched the sparks sucked up the
chimney.
Rosalind gave little thought to the tumult without. She was too
thoroughly luxurious. Even though her gown was wet, she felt that she
had been thrust into a wholly sybaritic environment. Lazily she watched
two little, ascending volumes of steam as her stockings began to dry
before the fire.
"How about eating?" he asked.
"We might," she admitted. "That is, if you know--"
"Been here before," he answered, smiling. "You remember, I guess."
She watched him as he went back to the dining-room, and a minute after
that from another apartment she heard sounds, which she judged to
indicate the pantry or the kitchen.
It was rather curious to be in a house with a burglar, she reflected.
She did not think of it as hazardous, or unlawful, or even
improper--merely as curious. Ethics had been knocked out of her
adventure long ago. She was thankful for the wine he brought her; she
would be glad when the food came. These were material comforts, very
real and needful; and her mind for the present was dwelling only upon
material things.
It did not seem to her that it was even unusual to break Mr. Davidson's
window, to enter his house, to light his fire, to drink his sherry, to
eat his food; these were but mere incidents in a necessary proceeding.
Nor did she waste much thought upon the ringleader and companion in the
affair. Who or what he was did not matter much--just then; it was what
he did that counted. And Rosalind knew, if she had been alone, that she
would have done precisely the same thing. She found it rather pleasant
to have somebody else performing the drudgery. He came back with a loaf
of bread, some butter, and a can of potted tongue.
"I'm making some tea," he said. "It'll be ready as soon as the water
boils."
He carved a slice of bread, buttered it for her, and offered it. She
accepted with a nod of thanks, and mentally noted the fact that he knew
how to cut thin slices.
The food and wine warmed her; they even thawed her wonted austerity.
When he had finished eating, the boatman rummaged some cigarettes. He
offered her one; she declined, but with a smile. Had she been
alone--well, she might.
Under past circumstances, such an assumption on his part would have
roused her to rebuke. But she was in an oddly comfortable mood.
As he settled down in a chair and stretched his long legs toward the
fire, she studied him furtively. Particularly she studied his head. So
far as shape went, it seemed quite unlike any of the pictures that
represented the heads of typical criminals. It was rather well
constructed, along conventional and respectable lines.
The beard he wore baffled her somewhat in an attempt to read his face;
but that also, she decided, represented a normal average. Rosalind was
in no sense a criminologist; yet in outward aspects the boatman had a
law-abiding appearance.
He even revealed some traits that she admired. He had courage, for one
thing; and resource for another. He had strength, too, which counted
for something. In certain things he was rather ingenious, if frankly
unprincipled.
Strangely enough, the thing for which she would have marked him
"Excellent," had she been making out his report-card, was the very one
that had so frequently lashed her to anger--his absolute lack of
servility.
From most persons, and always from her inferiors, servility was
something that Rosalind expected--and detested. She took it as her due;
yes, even demanded it. But she despised the thing itself.
The boatman had offered her none. This was presumptuous, of course; yet
secretly she set it down to his credit. He never groveled; he was
rarely deferential. More often, in fact, he was rude and given to
mocking. But he inspired in her a sort of wondering and unaccountable
respect.
He stared lazily into the fire, as if oblivious of her presence.
Without, the storm still ruled, although it had palpably slackened in
fury. Sam seemed to be concerned about nothing save his cigarette.
Abruptly Rosalind rallied from her musings concerning him. She had
completely forgotten the reason for her presence on Davidson's
Island--that she was being kidnaped into matrimony! Her lips tightened,
and she glanced at him sharply.
Had he really meant it? He appeared to have forgotten it completely.
And if he had meant it, was it a sign of madness?
Try as she would, she could not reconcile the boatman with presumptive
insanity. For that matter, she could not reconcile him with much of
anything. She never realized until this moment how little she actually
knew about him.
He looked up; their eyes met. Rosalind colored faintly. Something shot
her thoughts back to the last instant aboard the launch when his wet
beard brushed her cheek. She wondered if he really had--there was so
much confusion.
"Sam!"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Please don't say 'ma'am' to me."
"Why not?"
"It's a word you are not accustomed to employing," she answered.
His study of her face was brief yet comprehensive.
"You think so?"
"I know it. It took you a long while to say it without hesitating. And
it does not--well, harmonize with other things that you say."
"All right; I'll quit it, Miss Chalmers."
"You helped me out of a rather bad situation a little while ago," she
said slowly.
She wanted to thank him, yet felt instinctively that he did not wish to
be thanked.
"Well, I got you into it; that was why."
"Yet if I had left your island alone I would undoubtedly have been
caught in the same storm."
"Oh, perhaps!"
"I think it was--splendid!"
"Why, thanks, ma--I mean, Miss Chalmers. Only you did the same for me
after you were up on the rock. So that makes it a stand-off."
Something in his manner and his speech perplexed her. Always before
there was raillery, derision; now he seemed to cloak himself in a grave
reserve.
"Sam!"
He waited for her to continue:
"You are not really a--common boatman," she said very positively.
"Sure of that?"
"Quite. But who are you?"
"You know enough, I guess."
"I'm afraid you _are_ a burglar."
"It looks like it, doesn't it?"
"Are you a spy?"
"I'm not on the witness-stand."
"Or a smuggler? And before you answer that I don't mind saying that all
smuggling is not--wicked."
He laughed outright.
"You certainly want me to confess something, so you made that one easy.
Well, if I'm a smuggler I'm not a very good one, I'm afraid. I haven't
been able to smuggle you to the American side yet."
Rosalind stiffened in her chair. Automatically she drew her stockinged
feet beneath her skirt. If there was to be another battle she felt that
there was a lack of militancy about her feet. A lady without her shoes
is scarcely girded for combat.
"That of course was an utterly absurd idea," she said firmly. "But I am
willing to consider it as a joke, in view--of all that has happened."
"Much obliged. But it wasn't a joke."
"You couldn't have meant it seriously?"
"Absolutely, Miss Chalmers."
"But why? Whatever put such a wild idea into your head?"
"I told you at the time. No use to go all over it again."
"But you must have had some reason."
"Sure. I wanted to marry you. I should say--'want.'"
"You still--"
"Want to? Oh, yes!"
"And you expect to go on with this impossible--affair?"
This time he merely made a gesture. It might have meant anything.
"Would you marry a woman who hated you?"
He considered this for some time, then looked her evenly in the eyes and
answered:
"You don't hate me."
Rosalind flushed, and did some considering on her own account.
"Possibly not," she admitted. "They say it is wicked to hate, so I try
not to. But, even if I do not hate you, why should you have the least
reason to think I would marry you?"
"Oh, what's the use of speculating?" he said wearily. "Maybe it was
because I wanted to put over a stunt nobody else had been able to
do--like finding the north pole."
Rosalind rose suddenly and walked toward a window. Her first impulse
was to fly into a temper.
A stunt! The task of winning her had become a--stunt! And he had
supplemented the insult of comparing her to the north pole!
Yet even in her anger she felt the urging of a desire to smile.
Rosalind was a severe and conscientious self-analyst; she harbored few
illusions. There was something in the frigid comparison that struck her
as rather clever--possibly true.
Perhaps, after all, she mused, it was a rough compliment. To be classed
among things practically unattainable implies a certain distinction.
"And you know," drawled a voice from the fireplace, "the north pole was
discovered."
She bit her lip and stared out of the window.
The rain had stopped and the wind was flattening. Overhead the racing
clouds were being sundered into groups and patches. She could see
intervals of blue.
"A boat!" she called sharply. "Mr. Davidson's yacht!"
Sam sprang from his chair and joined her at the window. The yacht was
making the wharf.
"Well, I guess this polar expedition has failed," he observed
whimsically. "Better luck next time."
Rosalind was thinking rapidly. The arrival of the yacht meant
safety--for her. But what of the boatman?
As they watched together a small procession of persons filed out upon
the dock and began to march to the house.
"Mr. Davidson!" she exclaimed. "He's back!"
The boatman nodded.
"Mr. Witherbee, Mr. Morton, Mr. Williams--oh, everybody! And they have
got--Billy Kellogg!"
She could easily discern the short, stout figure of the young man who
had admitted to Polly that he was an impostor. He was walking between
Mr. Davidson and one of the men servants, his head bent, his attitude
that of complete dejection.
The boatman inspected the group with interest, particularly the stout
young man.
"Run!" exclaimed Rosalind, turning swiftly upon him.
"And what are you going to do?"
"I'm all right; _I_ can stay. I'll explain--somehow. But you must go.
Take the back door, quick!"
"But why should I go?"
"A thousand reasons!"
"So as not to embarrass you," he suggested, watching the oncoming
procession.
"I--I didn't mean that. Go, while there's a chance."
"So you don't want me caught?"
"No!"
Still he hesitated. Rosalind gripped him by the arm and pushed him back
from the window.
"Hurry!" she commanded. "You have time to get out the back way.
Sam--please!"
The boatman smiled.
"All right; I'll disappear," he said. "Maybe I'll see you again,
Miss--No; I'm going to say it just once--Rosalind!"
"You said it back in the boat," she reminded him briskly.
"Then I really got away with it--because you heard."
"Yes; you really--'got away with it,' if that satisfies you. Now run!
They're on the porch."
He stepped swiftly across the library and into the hall. The sound of
Mr. Davidson's key in the lock was heard. With a laughing nod at
Rosalind, the boatman turned and ran--up-stairs!
"Sam!"
"S-sh!"
Rosalind faced the door desperately.
"Now I must manage to keep them down-stairs," she muttered.
*CHAPTER XXII*
*FOOTSTEPS ABOVE*
As the door was flung open Rosalind stood with her back against the
newel-post of the staircase, braced for defense against an army. Her
brain was in a tumult of activity.
"Rosalind!"
It was Polly's shriek. With it she sprang forward. The lady at the foot
of the staircase waved her back with a gesture.
"I'm quite all right, thanks," she said coolly.
"You're half drowned!"
"Not in the least; merely a little wet. Don't bother, Polly."
The men were staring as if at an apparition.
"Well, I'll be--"
Mr. Davidson left the sentence unfinished and resumed his incredulous
scrutiny.
It was Reggy Williams's turn to make a rush; but, as in the case of
Polly, Rosalind wafted him away with a motion of her hand.
"Please don't make a fuss," she said. "No damage has been done
whatever--except to a window. I broke it to get in."
"But how? Where did you come from? What brought you--"
The chorus of voices brought a frown of annoyance to her brow.
"I was rowing when the squall came," she observed quietly. "This was
the nearest place to land, so I came here. Apparently nobody was at
home, so I had to force my way in in order to get out of the storm."
"We--we didn't know what had happened!" exclaimed Polly, her voice
trembling. "We thought you might be--lost."
"I took care of myself quite nicely, thank you. I've had tea and bread
and butter, and I lighted a fire."
Rosalind's glance scanned the group and rested upon the stout young man.
He stood limp and unresisting in the grasp of Mr. Davidson's butler. In
the surprise of the meeting he had been forgotten. He seemed quite
contented to have it so.
"Well, thank the Lord, you're safe!" said Mr. Davidson heartily. "Glad
you made yourself at home; the house is yours. I got your telegram, you
see."
He turned to glare at the prisoner, who was bestowing upon Rosalind a
look of gloomy reproach. She eyed the young man coldly.
"I thought it was best to send for you," she said.
"Best! I should say it was! You--you impostor!"
The master of the house shook his fist under the nose of the prisoner,
who retreated a pace.
"Of course he isn't your nephew?"
"That! My nephew? I should say not!"
The stout young man shifted his feet.
"Once more I'll give you a chance to tell who you are," said Mr.
Davidson as he whirled upon the fellow.
The captive remained dumb.
"See that!" exclaimed Mr. Davidson. "He won't say a word. Hasn't said
a word since I got here. We've searched him. And, by George, he's got
letters on him addressed to my nephew, Billy Kellogg! And letterheads
with the name of 'Hastings & Hatch'! I tell you there's something bad
here."
"You think--"
"That maybe it's--_murder_!"
Polly suppressed a little shriek, while the stout and speechless young
man shook his head miserably.
"Yes--murder! Why not?" demanded Mr. Davidson. "He's probably done away
with my nephew, taken his place in New York, and all that sort of thing.
I'm wiring for more news now. The scoundrel--"
"But if that's the case," broke in Reggy Williams, "I don't see why he'd
want to come up here."
"Perhaps to finish his bloody work--to kill me!"
The prisoner sagged into the arms of the butler.
"That seems rather incredible," mused Rosalind.
Her observation of the captive had long ago driven her to the conclusion
that he was quite harmless.
"Incredible!" echoed Mr. Davidson. "Everything's incredible here
lately. If it's not murder, what is it? Where's my nephew? This man
won't tell. He knows; he's simply _got_ to know! He hears I'm away and
he comes up here posing as Billy. If it hadn't been for Polly here or
Morton he'd have fooled you all."
"But Mr. Morton--"
Rosalind checked herself and glanced at the Englishman. He chewed one
end of his mustache, but remained silent. Morton had taken no part in
the exposure; on the contrary, he had accepted the impostor.
"Oh, Morton pretended to know him, just so as to be able to watch him
better," said Mr. Davidson. "I understand all about that. But what I
want to know is, who is this scoundrel? Are you going to tell, sir?
Who are you?"
The young man remained steadfastly silent.
"Maybe I can make him talk," said Reggy Williams grimly, advancing his
huge bulk toward the captive.
It was Mr. Witherbee who remembered first Reggy's heart! Everybody had
forgotten it in the turmoil.
"Never mind, old man," he said anxiously, with a restraining hand on
Reggy's arm. "Take a chair. Sit down."
Reggy looked at him disgustedly.
"Will somebody kindly explain to me what this take-a-chair game is?" he
demanded. "Everybody seems to be crazy on the subject of chairs;
everybody wants me to sit down. I don't want to be disobliging; but,
great Scott! a man can't sit down all his life!"
Rosalind, still on guard at the newel-post, was chewing her lips.
Polly's eyes were distended with apprehension.
"Well, never mind trying to make him talk now," said Mr. Witherbee
soothingly. "Just leave it to Davidson."
"I'm going to leave it to the police," said that gentleman. "I've sent
for them. We're going to have a few things explained before I get
through. First, there's my nephew's murder."
"But you're not sure about that," Rosalind reminded him. "Perhaps he'll
turn up all right."
"Perhaps." But Mr. Davidson's tone was pessimistic. "We'll know before
long, at any rate. Then there's that boatman who's been hanging around
here. I've got men out after him now."
Rosalind breathed softly. She was eagerly yet fearfully listening for
some sound from up-stairs.
"What is he wanted for?" she asked.
"Burglary--almost everything! He is in on this; we feel sure of it.
Morton tipped me to get him."
Rosalind studied the Englishman swiftly, but his face was impassive. So
Morton had turned on the boatman at last! She wondered why.
"Don't forget the smuggling either," said Mr. Witherbee.
"I haven't," answered the master of the house. "I've sent for the
customs men. I want them to look this chap over, and also that
boatman--when we get him."
"Some of them think the boatman is a spy," Polly reminded him.
"Likely enough. But that's none of my affair. He can spy till he's
blind so far as I'm concerned. I want him for housebreaking."
Rosalind experienced a qualm, not of conscience but of anxiety. She
felt that her house of cards was about to topple. If they did get the
boatman, what of her?
"Well, no use standing here," said Mr. Davidson. "We can't do anything
more, I suppose, until the police come. Let's go into the library."
"And what'll I do with him, sir?" asked the butler, indicating his
prisoner.
"Take him up-stairs and lock him in the attic."
Rosalind's hand went to her throat. Instinctively she moved to bar the
stairway.
"I wouldn't," she advised hastily. "He might escape."
"Can't," declared Mr. Davidson emphatically. "He's too big to get
through an attic window, and if he did manage it he'd drop about forty
feet to the ground. Take him up-stairs, James."
"No," said Rosalind firmly.
Mr. Davidson looked at her in surprise.
"I've a better plan," she continued quickly. "Keep him with us. Watch
him. Study him. Sometimes they--they betray themselves."
The prisoner regarded her with appealing eyes.
"All right; watch him if you like," assented Mr. Davidson. "Bring him
into the library, James."
Not until the last of them had left the hall did Rosalind desert her
post at the foot of the staircase. As she moved to follow she gazed
swiftly upward, but the boatman was not in sight.
Her mood was a mixture of alarm and irritation. For the life of her she
could not understand why Sam committed the folly of seeking a refuge
upstairs, when there were easy avenues of escape by the rear of the
house. True, he might make his exit by an upper window and across the
porch-roof; but it was an extra and a useless hazard. Most amazing was
the fact that she did not know whether he was still in the house. She
prayed he was not, but feared otherwise. Nobody must go up-stairs until
she could be sure.
It did not add to her peace of mind to discover as she followed the
prisoner and his captors into the library that she was shoeless. Over
by the fire her slippers were still drying. Mr. Morton was staring
solemnly at them.
With icy dignity she glided past him and picked them up.
"Ah--allow me," he said, dropping to one knee.
"Thank you, but I always put on my own shoes," said Rosalind.
Damp as they were, she contrived to squeeze into them. They gave her a
sense of security.
"You must have been good and hungry, Rosalind," remarked Reggy Williams.
He was examining the tea-tray with its two cups and saucers. She did
not at first understand.
"Certainly I was hungry."
"As hungry as two people, evidently."
She colored faintly, but answered readily enough. "Oh! you mean the two
cups and saucers. I did it absent-mindedly. I'm not accustomed to
lunching alone."
Reggy's finger touched a cigarette-butt that lay on the tray; his glance
was accusing.
"I admit it," said Rosalind coldly. "Is there any reason why I should
not?"
Reggy made a disapproving gesture, but answered not.
"There are two more on the hearth," she added, pointing.
"But, Rosalind--"
"I am exceedingly fond of them. That is sufficient."
She spoke with a finality that discouraged him, which was exactly what
she intended. Mentally she added another mark to the score against the
boatman.
The stout young man had been placed in a stiff-backed chair near a
window. The butler stood vigilantly at his side, ready to descend upon
him if he made a suspicious move. But the prisoner was inert. All
volition as well as speech had deserted him.
Mr. Davidson paced the library, talking volubly. Now and then he halted
in front of his victim and glowered at him belligerently. That young
man was too impassive even to think. He seemed utterly uninterested in
his fate.
Mr. Witherbee tried to insinuate a chair under the legs of Reggy
Williams, which brought an outraged snort from that gentleman. Rosalind
was beginning to feel the tension. Would the boatman never go? Or had
he gone?
They pressed her for the story of her own adventures and she supplied it
rapidly as she could invent. It was not easy to eliminate Sam from the
recital; more than once she checked his name on her lips. Yet she
managed a very fair yarn. It filled Polly with thrills of awe and
admiration. She could not take her eyes from the narrator.
In fact, so completely did she study the figure of this remarkable young
woman that she was moved to a startled exclamation:
"Why, Rosalind!"
Polly was pointing at Rosalind's left arm. It was too late to hide it;
the bracelet was glowing dully in the afternoon light.
"Where on earth did you get it?"
Rosalind flushed with anger and dismay. Reggy was staring, also.
"So you do wear it sometimes," he said with a sigh.
"But it's the one we found!" exclaimed Polly, bewildered. "And then we
gave it to the sale. And they lost it! And--why, Rosalind!"
The wearer of the telltale ornament was for once speechless. All her
resourcefulness was swept away in an instant. Her cheeks were very red,
but her eyes were defiant. The look she gave Polly was fairly
murderous.
A noise from up-stairs caused abrupt silence in the library. Everybody
heard it clearly. It was a footstep!
Rosalind stopped breathing and waited. Mr. Davidson held up a warning
finger. The young man in the chair looked expectant.
The first footstep was followed by others. There was nothing stealthy
about them; they were frank, careless, and unconcerned. Somebody was
walking along the upper hall!
An instant later the footsteps were on the staircase, descending
leisurely. The tableau in the library was held without a quiver by its
actors. Their eyes were staring toward the doorway that led into the
hall. Rosalind was rigid as bronze. She alone knew what the footsteps
portended. The game was up!
Very deliberately they came nearer and nearer. She even found herself
counting them mechanically. It was like the approach of nemesis. Had
the boatman gone mad again?
The footsteps were in the hall now. Mr. Davidson's stout body began to
quiver; he was poised as if for a spring, his eyes ablaze with
determination, his hands--
A young man in white flannels walked into the library.
He was slender and tall and immaculate. Under his coat he wore a
delicately striped silk shirt. His collar and scarf were beyond
criticism. His canvas shoes were spotless.
A casual observer would have noted but one unusual fact; the upper half
of his face was deeply tanned, while his cheeks, his lip and his chin
were pallid. He was cleanly shaved.
"Hello, folks!" he grinned.
Mr. Davidson made the spring for which he had been poised.
"Billy! You young scoundrel!"
In the same instant he enveloped the intruder with a bearlike embrace.
The young man gazed placidly over Mr. Davidson's head and straight into
the eyes of Rosalind Chalmers.
*CHAPTER XXIII*
*UNSCRAMBLING THE MYSTERY*
Hot resentment overcame Rosalind--resentment at the boatman's duplicity,
at the trick he had played upon her, at her own lack of perception. It
was succeeded by a sense of extraordinary humiliation. She felt as if a
cross section had been carved out of her life and spread before vulgar
eyes upon the slide of an inexorable microscope--for she did not pause
to consider that much of what had happened was known only to Sam and
herself.
Then came a period of panic. There would be revelations, of course.
How far would they go?
Yet, while her mind was in an agony of agitation, she managed to
maintain her poise. Steadily, and without wincing, she stared into the
face of Billy Kellogg--and waited.
Mr. Davidson stepped back a pace and surveyed his nephew.
"But--when did you get back?" he cried.
"I haven't been away."
"What!"
William Kissam Kellogg smiled benignantly at his uncle.
"But how--what--where--"
Mr. Davidson paused to recover his breath. The glance of the ex-boatman
wandered to other members of the party.
"Hello, Polly!" he said.
Polly was speechless--unable to answer the salutation. She gazed upon
Kellogg as she would at some supernatural thing.
"There seems to be a great deal of fuss about nothing in particular," he
remarked. "What's up?"
"Up!" repeated Mr. Davidson. "Everything's up! You're alive!"
"I hope so."
"We--we thought you were murdered," faltered Polly, finding speech.
"Honestly? What put that idea into your head?"
For answer, Mr. Davidson pointed grimly at the stout young man in the
chair.
"Hello, Bob!" said Billy Kellogg casually. "You couldn't duck it--eh?"
The prisoner shook his head miserably.
The nephew chuckled as he greeted the captive with a hand-shake.
"Bob's all right," he assured his uncle. "He's a friend of mine."
Mr. Davidson's jaw was hanging.
"But you--you--"
"Why not introduce me, Uncle Henry?"
The master of the house gulped, and performed the ceremony in a
bewildered and perfunctory style. Toward the last he arrived at
Rosalind.
"My nephew, Billy Kellogg," he said lamely.
Rosalind bowed almost imperceptibly. Her eyes were hard and
questioning. Inwardly she trembled; but she did not flinch. The former
boatman studied her with a whimsical glance.
"We've met before, Miss Chalmers," he said, bowing.
"I believe so," she answered briefly.
"You see," said Kellogg, turning to his uncle, "I've had the honor of
serving Miss Chalmers at odd times within the last few days. We-- Why,
hello, Reggy!"
For the first time he appeared to observe Reginald Williams, who had
been watching the scene in dumb amazement.
"Bill Kellogg!" he exclaimed. "You mean to tell me that you were--"
Billy nodded and grinned.
"Of course I don't need to introduce Morton," said Mr. Davidson.
Billy looked at the Englishman and nodded coldly.
"No, you don't need to," he agreed.
Mr. Morton preserved a calm exterior. He contented himself with
returning the bow.
"Now explain yourself!" ordered Mr. Davidson peremptorily. "When did
you quit New York?
"Haven't been there, Uncle Henry."
"You haven't been at work--at all?
"Not at the banking-game."
"But how the--"
"Somebody lend me a cigarette," said Billy. "Thanks. I see I've got to
tell all."
He cast a swift, malicious glance at Rosalind.
"You see, Uncle Henry," he went on, "it wasn't that I minded banking so
much as the fact that I hated to go away and leave this crook here with
ten thousand dollars of perfectly good money."
He nodded toward Morton.
"Crook?" echoed Mr. Davidson.
"Sure! Did you think I wasn't wise? I knew it the very night he
trimmed me. But he was your guest in _our_ house; so what could I say?
"I knew I'd been buncoed the minute I thought the thing over. So I
didn't propose to go away and leave him on the job. I decided to stick
around and take a chance on getting it back."
Morton was imperturbable.
"And I got it back," added Billy triumphantly, with a fleeting look at
Rosalind.
Mr. Davidson turned a questioning glance upon the Englishman, who nodded
and smiled faintly. A bewildered look overspread the face of the master
of the house.
"I introduced him to poker," explained Billy.
"Introduced--him!" cried his uncle. "Introduced Morton to poker? Why,
you young cub, he played poker before you were out of knee-breeches!"
It was the turn of the young man in white flannels to stare.
"He knows more poker in a minute than you do in a month," declared Mr.
Davidson contemptuously. "He eats it! And as for being a crook--well,
he happens to be the English representative of my own firm; that's all."
Rosalind enjoyed the discomfiture of the ex-captain of the
_Fifty-Fifty_. "But, uncle, he--"
"Oh, shucks! You think he trimmed you at bridge, do you? All right; he
did. I told him to!"
Billy Kellogg swallowed hard.
"That's what I brought him here for," said Uncle Henry. "You needed a
lesson, and there was only one way to give it to you. I told him to
come here and skin you alive. I wanted a good excuse to send you to
work. I told him to trim you for a year's income if he could. And you
did, didn't you, Morton?"
The Englishman shrugged in a bored way.
"It was strictly a matter of business between Morton and myself. You
were to get your money back at the end of a year--if you behaved. Why,
he told me it was as easy as taking a saucer of milk away from a blind
kitten!"
Rosalind smiled and made a motion to attract the attention of Billy.
She did not want him to miss the smile. He didn't.
"And now explain where you've been," commanded Uncle Henry.
"I haven't been far," said his nephew in a crestfallen tone. "I went
over to the American side for a while and thought it over. I decided I
wouldn't be a banker. I made up my mind I'd stay here as long as Morton
did and lay for him. But of course I didn't want you to get wise, so I
kept out of sight until I could grow whiskers. I'm glad they're gone."
He rubbed his chin tenderly.
"After I got whiskers enough I looked around for something to do. A
fellow had a boat cheap and I bought it. I had money enough for that.
Then I went to work."
Polly Dawson gasped.
"You--were that boatman!"
The nephew nodded.
"You mean the burglar?" demanded Mr. Davidson, whirling upon her.
"You only thought I was a burglar," explained Billy. "I just dropped in
now and then when I needed anything."
"You unprincipled rascal! Do you know the Cain you've raised?"
"Something of it, Uncle Henry. I didn't mean to make too much trouble,
of course--not any more than was necessary."
Mr. Davidson suddenly recollected the prisoner, who sat in the chair.
"Who's that, then?" he demanded.
"Oh, he's Bob Murray."
"And who in blazes--"
"An old friend. You see, Bob and I went to college together. Bob's a
lot different from me. He likes to work. In fact, he _has_ to work.
Just about the time you shipped me off to Hastings & Hatch--or thought
you did--I heard from Bob. He needed a job. So I gave him mine. I
sent him the letter and the full directions. And I understand he's done
me credit, too."
"Is this true?" demanded Mr. Davidson, glaring at the captive.
The young man nodded.
"Then why didn't you say so?"
"Because I swore him to secrecy," explained Billy. "I told Bob not to
squeal until I gave the word. And he stuck by me."
Uncle Henry only half succeeded in suppressing an expletive.
"Of course, Bob didn't want to come when you sent for me," continued Mr.
Davidson's nephew. "But I understand the bank ordered him to come, so he
couldn't help himself. He knew I was up here, anyway, and figured that
I'd straighten it out for him."
The stout young man breathed deeply and contentedly.
"You're a pair of young fools--and scoundrels!" said Uncle Henry
heatedly. "One is as bad as the other."
"Oh, hold on," protested Billy. "Go easy there. Bob's a model young
banker. They tell me you've said so yourself; that you were so proud of
him you spread the news around."
Mr. Davidson gave his nephew a furious look.
"And to think--none of us recognized you!" exclaimed Polly, staring at
the former captain of the one-cylinder launch.
"You were the only one I was afraid of," laughed Billy. "You see, _you_
knew me; the rest didn't--except Morton. That's why I wouldn't let you
aboard one day after they'd planned to take you. I knew you'd recognize
my voice."
"But didn't Mr. Morton?"
All eyes were turned upon the Englishman. He coughed, but said nothing.
"Of course he knew me; but I did not care about him. I knew he would
not squeal. You see, I had it on him about the cards--or I thought I
did."
Mr. Morton permitted himself to smile in a bored way.
"And now I understand why you were deaf and dumb to me," blurted Reggy
Williams with a sheepish flush.
"You see, Reggy and I are old pals," remarked Billy. "I knew he'd never
recognize me in my old rig and with the beard; but I didn't dare speak
to him. So I played dummy."
Reggy turned an inquiring glance upon Rosalind.
"Was he a dummy when you hired him?" he inquired.
She shook her head.
"But you didn't tell me that!"
The silence threatened catastrophe. It was broken by a strident laugh
from Billy Kellogg.
"Oh, I've been having a lot of fun," he said. "Of course I didn't mean
to get you all worked up over burglars. Remember the night, Uncle
Henry, when you and the help hunted the whole island and then chased me
in the launch?"
Rosalind breathed again. The boatman was doing his best to save her.
"Do I remember?" shouted Mr. Davidson. "You bet I do! You young
reprobate! I might have shot you; do you know that? And--and who was
it that helped you out?"
"Helped me out?" repeated Billy, with an innocent stare and a wrinkling
of his forehead. "How do you mean?"
"The other boat--the fellow who boarded you and got your engine going."
The young man in flannels shook his head in a puzzled way.
"No fellow boarded me," he said.
"I tell you we heard him--saw him."
"He didn't come aboard my boat, Uncle Henry. I'll swear."
"Billy, you're lying!"
Mr. Davidson's nephew indicated that he was deeply affronted by the
accusation. He gazed solemnly at Rosalind. She was idly turning the
leaves of a book that lay on the library table.
"I suppose I must put up with anything," he sighed.
"After what you've made us put up with I should say yes!" snorted Mr.
Davidson. "But there was somebody else; we've got evidence. It was the
other man who tried to rob Witherbee's--the same night! You've been
keeping bad company, young man."
Billy glanced again at Rosalind, but her face was averted from him.
"And, Morton, I'm surprised at you," continued Mr. Davidson. "If you
really knew him, why didn't you tell me?"
"Um--ah! But--don't you see?--it would have been hardly sporting. Oh,
not a bit!"
"And you deliberately let me go on making a fool of myself!"
The Englishman shrugged.
"And it was you who sent the customs men to look up Morton, I suppose,"
added Mr. Davidson, turning again to his nephew.
"I'm sorry I did that; it was just an impulse. I only wanted to bother
him some."
Uncle Henry made an exasperated gesture.
"Well, you're disgraced, and so am I," he growled. "You're a worse
scapegrace than I believed. You've made a fool out of everybody,
including Miss Chalmers, who I understand has been employing you."
Rosalind looked up from the book and shook her head.
"Billy didn't make a fool out of me," she said.
The ex-boatman blinked.
"You see, I knew him from the first," she added. "In fact, I've known
him a good while. But--although perhaps it wasn't very considerate of
the others--I didn't say anything because-- Well, for the same reason
that Mr. Morton gave. It hardly seemed sporting."
Billy bit his tongue savagely; but he could not hide the little wrinkles
at the corners of his eyes.
"What's she up to now?" he thought.
"So I just let the joke go on. If it was wrong, I'm sorry," concluded
Rosalind.
"And you mean that you two have known each other all the time?" cried
Polly, staring from one to the other.
"All the time," confirmed Billy. "Why, I've known Rosalind since she
was a tomboy and--and climbed trees."
Rosalind flushed, but she nodded what was interpreted as a confirmation.
"Well," demanded Mr. Davidson, after a pause, "what am I going to tell
the police when they come?"
"Try to head 'em off," suggested his nephew.
The master of the house accepted the suggestion and moved toward the
telephone. As he lifted the instrument the bell began ringing.
"Well?" he asked, the receiver at his ear. "Yes, it's Mr. Davidson.
What? Say it again. Richardson? Who-- Oh, yes. I understand--yes.
"Tried to get Witherbee? Yes, he's here; we're all here. Yes, Mr.
Morton is here, too.
"What's that? Well, what do you know about that?
"Huh? Sure!
"What? Yes; I'll tell him.
"Oh, certainly! It'll be all right. Glad you got him.
Congratulations! Yeh--fine! Uh-huh! All--right!"
He replaced the instrument on the table.
"Customs men," he explained. "They wanted to apologize for bothering
Morton the other day. They've got their man."
"Who?"
"Fellow that's been smuggling diamonds. Got him with the goods only an
hour ago. A chap named Schmidt."
Rosalind and Billy exchanged swift looks.
"Why, that's the man they thought was a spy!" cried Polly.
"Well, he wasn't. He was just a plain smuggler."
"But, Billy, he used to hire your boat."
The ex-boatman made a weary motion with his hands.
"It's getting too many for me," he said. "He told me he was a
grain-broker. A right decent sort of cuss, too."
"So you've been aiding and abetting a smuggler," remarked Mr. Davidson
slowly as he glared at the boatman. "That's fine business for a nephew
of mine. What else have you been doing? Any murders or embezzlements,
or anything like that? Any highway robberies? Or maybe you were a
pirate--eh? Well, why don't you answer?"
"What's the use? You're covering all the main points, I guess. I can't
think of anything else."
Uncle Henry abandoned in disgust the task of cataloguing the probable
misdeeds of his nephew and turned to the telephone in an effort to head
off the police.
"Well, I suppose we may as well be going back," observed Mr. Witherbee.
"There doesn't seem to be anything more to find out."
That reminded Polly.
"But the bracelet!" she exclaimed. "Rosalind! How in the world--"
Polly broke off abruptly and looked about the room.
"Why, where is she?"
Rosalind had disappeared.
*CHAPTER XXIV*
*CURTAIN!*
Billy Kellogg to find her! He did. She was down in the boat-house,
trying to smash a padlock that detained one of Mr. Davidson's skiffs.
There was no doubt she was tremendously anxious to leave the island.
At his approach she looked up defiantly.
"Well?" she demanded.
"I did my best," he said contritely.
It was impossible to miss the resentment in her eyes.
"Your best!"
"I didn't tell any more than I had to," he explained. "You see,
Rosalind--"
"Mr. Kellogg!"
"Oh, well! You called me Sam not so very long ago. And only a few
minutes back I was Billy--and you said you had known me a good while."
"In self-defense."
"I don't see how--"
"It forestalled endless explanation," she said in a chilled voice.
"But you don't suppose all the explaining is over, do you?" objected
Billy. "Polly was still asking about the bracelet when I left."
Rosalind sat on a nail-keg and stared at him combatively.
"I hope you are satisfied after having disgraced me," she said.
"I got your bracelet."
"And made a fool of me from beginning to end!"
"You dared me."
"I?"
"Yes--ma'am."
He smiled in a way that merited annihilation.
"Of course you dared me," added Billy. "Everything you did or said was
a dare. Every time you were so scornful and so superior it was a dare.
Why, I couldn't have helped it if I'd tried. And I didn't try, as a
matter of fact."
Rosalind was in a strange plight of mind. She tried to summon
haughtiness, but the mood would not respond. Her armor seemed to have
fallen from her.
"You--you were brutally insulting," she faltered.
"I suppose I wasn't very polite," he admitted. "Nevertheless, you'll
have to admit you weren't very polite to me. Let's forget the whole
business."
"Forget?"
"Why not? What's the use of rehashing it?"
"You expect me to forget--after what has happened? The tree--and the
water--and the por--portrait!"
"It wasn't a portrait," he said mildly. "I made a mistake. As for the
telegram--Bob misunderstood when I wired him. I only wanted to be sure
who you were. I wasn't bidding. At first I thought it wasn't a bad
picture. But I found out I was wrong."
She looked up at him.
"Why, that portrait didn't begin to resemble you--ma'am."
"Please--I asked you!"
"Not to say 'ma'am.' I remember now. But it's so hard not to say
'Rosalind.'"
She made no answer to that.
"I wish you'd lash out at me just as you did when I was a boatman," he
went on. "I was getting used to that."
Still Rosalind had no answer. She was groping blindly for her old
footing, but could not find it. Everything had gone in the crash.
"Please unfasten the skiff," she said after a pause.
"What for?"
"I--I wish it. I'm going home."
"In a skiff?"
She met his glance with a flash of her old disdain.
"I'll go if I have to swim," she said. "Haven't I undergone enough?
Haven't I been humiliated and made ridiculous and--"
"Not necessarily. It all depends on whether we're going to confess the
whole business or stand on our constitutional rights. They don't know a
tenth of it--yet. Why should they? We told 'em we'd known each other a
long time. Why not play the hand out?"
Rosalind's eyes questioned him.
"I mean, why not resume the voyage--for Ogdensburg?"
She gasped.
"Certainly; why not?"
She rallied swiftly from the shock of the proposal.
"I think you forget yourself," she said sternly.
"Not a bit." He shook his head. "I haven't forgotten anything. On the
contrary, I'm remembering all that happened and all that was said. I'm
remembering about our being pals. You needn't jump at that. It's not a
bad word, after all--pals. I say, let's go ahead."
"Mr. Kellogg!"
"Make it 'Billy.'"
She shook her head.
"'Sam,' then."
She remained silent.
"I suppose I ought to apologize for a lot of it," he muttered. "But
somehow I can't. You know as a matter of fact you deserved most of it."
Rosalind sat very straight on the nail-keg.
"Yes; you did. You were so all-fired scornful of everybody and
everything--particularly me. You rubbed it in. You just carved me into
slivers every time you spoke--and I guess you thought I wasn't even good
enough to furnish slivers.
"I'll admit I'm not much use in the world; I'm about as useless as the
first six rows in a movie house. But that wasn't any reason for climbing
me every time I did something or said something. So far as usefulness
goes I'll stack up with Reggy, anyhow.
"Wait a minute now. I'm not going to hurt your feelings. That was just
a preface. Here's the rest of it: All the time you were carving me and
climbing me I was strong for you. That's Gospel. I just had to be.
You bullyragged me into loving you.
"Perhaps that doesn't sound quite right. I don't mean that you tried
to. But I mean that every time you clouted me I loved you some more.
"Wait--please wait! We'll cut out the trip to Ogdensburg. I see you're
not ready for that--yet.
"Yes; I said, 'yet.' I'm filing a claim. Some day I'm going to take it
up, perhaps after we've known each other a conventional time.
"I'll admit it may not seem very promising now. But the gold's there,
Rosalind. I know it. You may have hidden it from a lot of other
people, but you can't hide it from me."
Rosalind's nineteenth--or was it the eighteenth, or twentieth?--proposal
bewildered her.
"So remember! It stands this way: I love you, and some day I'm going to
marry you. I'll wait--but I won't quit."
He paused and watched her for some sign, but she was mute, motionless.
Suddenly his voice changed.
"Oh, if you'd only let yourself go, Rosalind! If you'd only throw off
the mask! You nearly did, back in the launch, when it was all touch and
go for a few minutes.
"I don't love you because you're brave or capable or wonderful. That's
only part of you--the part everybody sees. But there's a lot more than
that. You've tried to bury it out of sight in your woman's heart, but it
won't stay there always. It's the real you--and I'm going to have it!"
There was a moment of silence. Then Kellogg spoke with his old
briskness.
"Well, let's see if we can get the skiff loose. You want to get over to
Witherbee's a soon as possible, I guess. Your gown isn't dry yet."
Rosalind nodded. She watched him as he fumbled with the padlock. She
had the sensation that something extraordinary was happening to her--a
sort of transmigration from one existence to another.
Her mind was not working very clearly; it groped. Through it all ran a
faint and vague whisper of alarm. She wondered if she was losing her
sure and steady grip on Rosalind Chalmers. It was so absurd, too; so
unthinkable--so--
"Funny about Schmidt, wasn't it?" remarked Billy, still struggling with
the lock. "I never had the least idea. Did you?"
She shook her head mechanically and without the least thought of the
boatman's patron.
"I'm getting Uncle Henry to fix things up for Bob," he went on. "He's
going to keep the banking-job. Poor devil! He's been scared stiff for
the last two days. What did you think of him, anyhow?"
This time she did not hear his question at all.
The padlock came loose in his hand, and he unchained the skiff.
"All ready," he said. "I'll row."
But Rosalind did not take the hand that he reached to steady her. It
was busy, unclasping the bracelet on her arm. An instant later she
flung the golden treasure far out into the river.
"Rosalind!"
She looked at Billy with a smile of contentment.
"There goes the last of my lies," she said with a luxurious sigh. "I've
told so many that I'm completely ashamed of myself. And most of them
were all on account of that."
She pointed to where the bracelet had disappeared forever.
"It seemed to chain me to so many things I want to get rid of," she
added thoughtfully. "It was not only the lies--it was almost
everything. And I simply had to do something physical to break away."
The incompetent boatman nodded to signify that he understood--but he
didn't. Something in her eyes baffled him.
"Well, hop in," he said shortly, breaking the tension.
Rosalind drew back a step from the skiff.
"I object to being ordered to do things," she said firmly.
"I beg your pardon. I meant--"
"You mean to ask, of course," she broke in.
"Yes; certainly."
"That's better," she said softly. "It is very much nicer to be asked."
She was about to embark when he gripped her suddenly by the shoulders
and stared into her face.
"What did you mean by that?" he demanded, shaking her gently. "Am I
dreaming--or crazy. 'Nicer to be asked!' Rosalind! Why--I'm a fool!
Did you mean--"
"Ask me."
He got his answer, too, even if it was slightly muffled.
In the latest print of Hamersly's "Social Register" there is a
cross-index on a certain page among the C's that refers the reader to a
certain other page among the K's; or if you happen to hit the K page
first, an equally obliging cross-index will send you back to the C's, if
you are at all curious. If you look under "Sam," you'll find there's
nothing at all. It is because of that very omission that two certain
persons have agreed that Hamersly's is trashy, unreliable and
incomplete, and have canceled their subscription.