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 XXINEW LIGHTS ON SAMFor 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.[image]Without a word he dropped on his knees and began taking off her shoesShe 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 youarea 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;Ican 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 XXIIFOOTSTEPS ABOVEAs 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 simplygotto 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.
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.
[image]Without a word he dropped on his knees and began taking off her shoes
[image]
[image]
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 youarea 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;Ican 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 simplygotto 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.