CHAPTER VTHE PLOT CURDLES"Why—why—"She checked herself and reflected swiftly. She must not—she could not—claim it."Why," faltered Miss Chalmers weakly, "what a curious bracelet!""Isn't it, though?" exclaimed Mrs. Witherbee, holding it up so that the light played upon the dull gold. "That's what all of us said. We're having a time trying to decide who will keep it—that is, of course, if nobody claims it. Gertrude is crazy about it; Polly Dawson wants it; I fancy it tremendously myself.""May I see it?" asked Miss Chalmers.She gazed more sadly than curiously at the bauble Mrs. Witherbee dropped into her palm."Notice the carving," urged Mrs. Witherbee. "Did you ever see anything so odd?""It's very odd," assented the owner dully."And not a jewel in it!""Not a jewel," echoed Miss Chalmers, shaking her head."Gertrude and I have been wondering where in the world it was purchased. We both want one. But there isn't the sign of a maker's mark; it doesn't even say how many carats."The artistic soul of Miss Chalmers was in revolt. Maker! Carats! There was something shockingly coarse in the suggestion. How little they understood! Nobody in the whole world knew the name of the artisan who fashioned it, nor ever would know. He went to his peace five thousand years ago. There were no carats in those days; not for this workman. For he made the thing for a princess, and he made it of pure gold.Nowhere, unless in some undiscovered tomb in Egypt, was there anywhere its mate. Weighed in the scales of trade, it might have brought fifty dollars as metal. To Miss Chalmers it was a thing beyond price.She knew little of its history save this: Only two women in the world had worn it. One was a princess, daughter of some forgotten Pharaoh. It was upon her wrist when they opened the tomb. The other woman was Rosalind Chalmers.Just how Reginald Williams came into possession of it Miss Chalmers never knew, but he had brought it to America for her. And she had worn it with a pleasant sense of satisfaction in the fact that the bracelet had merely been transferred from the arm of a dead princess to a living one. Miss Chalmers, rightly enough, had an excellent opinion of herself.Reggy Williams thought she wore it for him. It was neither kind nor worth while to tell him his mistake. The reason she wore it had partly to do with the Egyptian princess and partly with the fact that it was unique and beautiful.Now, as it lay in her hand, she experienced a sense of dismay. She could snap it about her arm, of course, and then explain—explain that— Of course she couldnot! No; that was out of the question. Not after all she had told them that morning.Into Miss Chalmers's mind flashed the memory of a sound that had reached her ears, even in the tremendous din of the Witherbee burglar-alarm. She recalled it as a rattling noise, but had given it no second thought in her panic. The discovery of her bracelet in the possession of her hosts supplied an exasperating explanation. She asked absently:"You say the burglar dropped it?""Right on the porch where he had opened the window," said Mrs. Witherbee."Tom says it was quite a little distance from the window, mother," interrupted Gertrude."It was on the porch, at any rate," continued the hostess. "We think he had just stolen it from some other island. It's not likely a man would be carrying a thing like that around for any length of time."Tom found it while they were hunting with the lantern last night. We're going to make inquiries, of course; but, to tell you the truth, dear, we're just hoping a little that the owner won't be found. In that case we'll keep it.""You mean I'll keep it, mother," said Gertrude."Well, Polly wants it, too, my dear. Probably the best way will be to send it to the city and have copies made. Then we can each have one."Miss Chalmers shuddered."We've all tried it on, but I think it fits me best," asserted Gertrude.The owner felt dizzy. It had been tried on—defiled!"You can wear it for a while, if you like, Rosalind," said Gertrude generously."No, thank you," answered Miss Chalmers as she returned the bracelet to Mrs. Witherbee.Her voice was flat and faint.After that Tom Witherbee joined the group and the tale of the midnight alarm was spun again. Then came Polly Dawson, short, plump, and light-headed—both ways, for she was blonde—and Polly told it all over, but in such different fashion, and with such a completely new set of facts that it became quite a new story.Afterward a few others came straggling down—the two Winter girls, Fortescue Jones, and a dull-looking youth named Perkins, of whom Miss Chalmers had never heard. And presently Mr. Morton, rearrayed, made his second appearance that morning. He bowed again very formally to the new guest.It was a dull breakfast for Miss Chalmers. Everybody except herself babbled incessantly about the burglar, the bracelet, and the hunt by lantern-light.The trinket of a princess was now upon Polly Dawson's arm, she having beseeched Gertrude to let her wear it during the forenoon at least. The owner eyed it gloomily and made plans. Even though it had been desecrated, she did not propose to abandon it to utter vandalism. She did not even intend that any vulgar modern craftsman should make copies of it.When the moment was opportune, Miss Chalmers proposed to steal it. Of course she could never wear it again in the presence of the Witherbees or any of their guests; but she would possess it at any rate.Breakfast was served on a broad porch at the rear of the house, which was the Witherbees' dining-room for all meals when the weather was fine. It was not yet finished when Miss Chalmers saw something as she glanced beyond the railing that fascinated her.She stared fixedly, then brought her glance suddenly back to the table and furtively examined the faces of her hosts and fellow guests. After that she looked over the railing again. If she grew a shade paler, nobody appeared to observe the fact; nor did any one notice she had become restless.After a minute or two she rose and walked toward the steps. They descended to a lawn that was broken with shrubs and flower-beds and paths."Where away, Rosalind?" called Gertrude."I want to see the garden," she called back.But instead of making directly for the garden she followed a course closely parallel to the porch, which brought her to a pathway that led from a rear door of the house to a small outbuilding that served as a summer kitchen."Wait! Stop, Rosalind!"She did not seem to hear, but stepped upon the path."You'll ruin your shoes!" cried Mrs. Witherbee."That concrete was just laid yesterday. It's soft." Miss Chalmers looked down at the path, then took a step forward as if to verify. Still unsatisfied, she tested the path once, twice, thrice, with her immaculate shoes. Then she turned and looked up at Mrs. Witherbee."Why, how stupid of me!" she exclaimed. "It is soft, isn't it?"She moved toward the porch, treading again upon the slightly yielding surface. Then she stepped back upon the grass."I'm so sorry," she murmured. "I'm afraid I've marked your path."She paused to study the footprints. There were nine distinct impressions in the concrete. One was slightly deeper than its mates."They won't notice that little difference," she reflected. "But I hope to Heaven nobody took the trouble to observe that I stepped on the path only eight times."Then she wandered off into the garden, with a remark upon the unexplained magnetism that wet paint, particularly when so labeled, exercises upon meddlesome fingers.(Moral: In order to cover your trail be the first to discover it—and then multiply.)"It's rather exacting work," thought Miss Chal—Wait a minute! This eternal "Miss Chalmers" is tiresome. We've known her for at least twelve hours; we're going to know her much better. Nearly everybody else is calling her "Rosalind." Why stand aloof?"It's rather exacting work," thought Rosalind, "this business of arriving at unconventional hours and then making believe that everything was thoroughly conventional. If they don't stop talking about clues I shall go mad."If there was one thing that particularly bored Rosalind it was discussion of a topic plunged into with undisguised relish by Mrs. Witherbee, when that good lady joined her in the garden and deftly maneuvered her beyond the hearing of the others."Is it seventeen now, my dear, or eighteen?" asked Mrs. Witherbee with a knowing little chuckle."Seventeen—or eighteen?" puzzled Rosalind. "I don't understand."She did, however, because Mrs. Witherbee always approached the subject from the numerical angle."You know very well, my dear. Do not pretend. I thought the last one was the seventeenth, but Gertrude is sure he was the eighteenth. It was Mr. Williams, wasn't it?""Oh, please!" protested Rosalind."Oh, please?" echoed Mrs. Witherbee, hugging Rosalind's arm. "Oh, shucks, you mean! Why shouldn't we talk about it? Everybody else who knows you talks about it. Why shouldn't I?""But—but it's so intimately my own affair," said Rosalind, annoyed."It's more than your affair, dear. It's the affair of seventeen or eighteen perfectly nice young men—I wish to goodness I could remember the exact count! Seventeen or eighteen eligible men—all ready to marry you if you say the word.""All!" exclaimed Rosalind in a shocked tone. "Why, Mrs. Witherbee!""Well, you know what I mean," declared Mrs. Witherbee. "Of course you wouldn't marry them all. But it could be any one of the seventeen or eighteen. Now, couldn't it, Rosalind?"Rosalind sighed, not because she was either romantic or pensive, but out of sheer despair."I presume it could be," she admitted."Oh, you heart-breaker!" chided Mrs. Witherbee confidentially."I'm not!" declared Rosalind stoutly. "There isn't a broken heart among them. Their hearts are all perfectly sound and serviceable. They're not only air-cooled, but water-jacketed, and not one of them ever had a misfire on my account.""Rosalind! What in the world are you talking about?""Oh, well, please let's not talk about it any more. I can't stop them from asking me, can I?""No, but— Why, some of us wonder if you ever will be married!"Rosalind shook her head wearily."Oh, I suppose I'll be married some day; most women are. Meantime, what's the use of considering and plotting and planning, or even bothering about it? When a girl wants to get married she can do it—any time. There's nothing mysterious or unprecedented about it. It's been done several times, I believe.""You're so cynical, Rosalind.""I'm not—not in the least. I'm merely sane. Listen, now! Whose voice is that? You seem to have callers.""It sounds like Mr. Davidson," said Mrs. Witherbee, listening. "He's one of our neighbors. Shall we go and see?"They walked to the front of the house, where a group of persons stood in a circle around an elderly man who talked volubly."Come and listen to this," advised Mr. Witherbee, beckoning. "Davidson had a thief last night, too. Same one, probably. Miss Chalmers, let me present Mr. Davidson—one of our island neighbors."Mr. Davidson bowed briefly, then resumed his recital in a voice that Rosalind remembered quite well."We thought he was all alone at first. He started up his launch, and then he had a breakdown. Thought I had him sure then. But, by jingo! Do you know there was another fellow lying out there in a rowboat? He was keeping watch, I suppose. The second chap climbed into the launch, and they managed to get things started again."Even then we'd have had 'em in a fair race. He cut loose his rowboat after a while, and we smashed into that; we didn't stop to pick up the splinters. That delayed us a little, of course."But he put one over on us by slipping through that channel that splits Houghton's Island. I wouldn't take a chance on it. By the time we went around the island he wasn't in sight.""A pair of them, you said?" asked Mr. Witherbee."A whole gang, likely enough; but we saw only two. Don't know whether I hit any of 'em or not.""Anything stolen?""Now, there's the queer part," affirmed Mr. Davidson. "Not a blessed thing, so far as we can discover, unless it was something out of the library that we haven't been able to locate as yet."He seemed to have spent all his time in the library, as nearly as I can find out. He had a lot of books out on the floor. Perhaps he thought we hid things behind them. We can't find that he did anything except mess with the books."If Rosalind was afire with curiosity she did not betray the fact. Outwardly she maintained the frigid poise that had been the despair of the seventeen or eighteen."Well, from your story," commented Mr. Witherbee, "he got to your place after he visited us. He had hard luck here; he lost something. Who's got the bracelet? Here, Polly! Show it to Mr. Davidson."Polly held out her arm."If he hadn't visited us first I would have thought probably he stole it from your place," said Witherbee.Mr. Davidson glanced at the bracelet and shook his head."Haven't got any junk like that in our house," he declared. "Never saw it before."Rosalind flamed with resentment, but remained silent. Junk!"We've got to organize; that's all," declared Witherbee."It's a cinch something's got to be done," growled Davidson. "I tell you, there's funny goings-on around this place. Earlier last night, for instance. We were coming down the river in the yacht when somebody hailed us from a small boat. One of 'em—sounded like a woman, too—wanted help. The other one—a man—didn't want any help. Seemed to be having a row among themselves, so I didn't butt in."Rosalind was too bewildered to analyze the relation of this episode to what happened later. She merely made a mental note of the facts for future consideration.A man in overalls approached Mr. Witherbee and touched his cap."One of the skiffs is gone, sir—the new one," he said."Then he did steal something, after all!" exclaimed Witherbee. "Isn't that the devil now? I suppose that was the skiff you ran down, Davidson.""I suppose so," said Davidson gloomily. "Sorry.""Oh, that's all right. Don't bother. But, say, Davidson, you ought to do something for your own protection. Put in a burglar-alarm like ours, for instance.""Burglar-alarm!" snorted Davidson. "What do I keep dogs for? And what good are the dogs, either? I threatened to shoot 'em last night. I'm not sure but I will, even yet. That rascally nephew of mine spoiled those dogs. They've been mooning around the place ever since I shipped him off to New York. By Judas! I'd bring him back if it wasn't for the fact that I'm getting good reports about him. Witherbee, he's actually making good! Had a letter from Hastings & Hatch only this morning. He'll be a regular banker some day, they tell me. Would you have ever thought that?""I never would," admitted Witherbee.Rosalind wanted to slip away and think. She wanted to be undisturbed, so she might put together the pieces of the puzzle, which seemed to have been jigsawed into hopeless confusion.What she wanted most to know was just where she fitted into it. If there was to be serious burglar-hunting, if clues were being scattered about indiscriminately, she was considerably concerned as to where they might all lead.When Mr. Davidson had apparently arrived at the end of his facts and was turning to comment and speculation she detached herself from the group and wandered off to the summer pavilion, which she had first found during the course of her exploration in the dark hours.But she was not to be left alone. Mr. Morton, stroking his blond mustache, strolled in pursuit."Funny, by Jove! Isn't it, now?" he said. "Everybody chasing somebody, you know, and nobody catching anybody. I say it's confounded strange. What's your theory, Miss Chalmers?""I never theorize," said Rosalind shortly."Oh—ah—I see. Hum! Not a bad plan, that, either; not at all bad. Saves one a whole lot of bother, I should think.""Decidedly.""Oh, yes, a lot of bother," he went on aimlessly. "But we can't all do it successfully, you know. Deuced difficult not to think about anything."Rosalind's caution was uppermost. This drawling Morton person was somewhat enigmatic. She could not tell exactly why, but she was ill at ease.Presently he seemed to remember something, for he turned toward the river, of which the summer pavilion commanded a sweeping view, took his field-glasses from his pocket, and devoted himself to another of those surveys at which she had surprised him in the early hours. Rosalind watched in silence."Not a sign," he observed after a long scrutiny."Of what?""I— Oh, I beg your pardon. Did not know I had spoken—really. Nothing at all, Miss Chalmers; nothing at all.""Do you commonly look for nothing?""Had me there!" he exclaimed. "I suppose one doesn't really look for nothing, even if one expects nothing. Why—I—I was just looking for a boat; that's all. Nothing of importance, I assure you."Rosalind's thoughts reverted to Sam, her burglarious boatman. What did this man know about him? Why had he questioned her so down on the wharf?She was framing a guarded inquiry when Polly Dawson gurgled into the pavilion."Oh, Mr. Morton! I thought we were to play tennis this morning," she cried."Right you are!" he assented—with surprising alacrity, Rosalind thought. "Upon my word, I'd forgotten, Miss Polly. Awfully kind of you to look me up. You'll excuse me, Miss Chalmers? Or will you join us at the courts?""I think I'll excuse you," said Rosalind, deliberately.He stared for a brief instant."Why, yes; yes—of course. Awfully kind of you, too."Polly Dawson had him by the arm and was insistently urging him in the direction of the courts. As they passed out of the pavilion Rosalind caught another glimpse of her bracelet. She gritted her teeth."Now, let's see just where I stand," she murmured to herself, and began checking off her thoughts on her fingers.CHAPTER VI"PALS!"A dirty gray boat, quite too large for a skiff, was being slowly propelled against the current with the aid of a pair of oars. The man who furnished the power was talking torridly to himself, to the boat, and to the oars, with occasional digressions in which he addressed himself to the river, the waning day, and the Goddess of Luck. He perspired a great deal more than he progressed.Once he paused to wipe his forehead, an occupation which gave him opportunity to survey a nearby shore. Upon that shore he observed a lady walking. The lady was alone. The boatman smiled. He believed he could easily understand why the lady was alone, provided her tongue had not been paralyzed. He remembered it as a tongue that fended people off.As he looked at the slowly moving figure it came to a halt. At the distance and in the dusk the boatman could not be sure that she was looking at him, yet he rested on his oars, waiting.He saw something wave—a scarf or a handkerchief perhaps. He smiled again behind his shabby beard. Then he headed his boat toward the shore.Not until he was close to the island did he turn his head, and then with the remark:"Did you call me, ma'am?""What's the trouble now?" she asked sharply as a rejoinder."No trouble at all that I know of.""Why are you rowing?""Oh! You mean about the boat? Why, my batteries have gone dead.""How long since you replaced the cells?""I don't know. Maybe a year."Rosalind Chalmers uttered an exclamation of disgust."I wish to be taken somewhere," she said. "It's important.""I'll do my best to row you. How far is it—Europe?""I do not care to be rowed," she said. Her tone would have frozen mercury."Well, I'm headed for Clayton," he observed. "To buy some batteries. It's a long, long way; but if you'll be here until I get back I'll be at your service."Rosalind considered briefly."If I find a set of cells for you," she said, "may I employ you for an hour or two?""Surest thing you know, ma'am.""You'll wait here?""I'll not budge.""Don't come to the dock," she warned."No fear."She disappeared among the trees at a brisk walk, while the boatman edged his craft closer to the shore, made fast to a shelf of rock, and prepared to smoke. Twice he chuckled, once broke into a low laugh, as he sat in the stern of his launch, and waited.As the dusk thickened he lighted a grimy lantern. Its dim, yellow rays illuminated the cock-pit, and his eyes fell upon a book that lay on the floor. He reached for it, and picked it up, and began a casual study of its pages.There was one page, however, to which he reverted at frequent intervals, finally devoting his undivided attention to a study of it. He was thus engaged when a light footstep caused him to drop the volume.The lady was standing within a few feet of him, a bundle in her arms."Catch it!" she commanded.It unrolled itself as it reached his arms, and half a dozen dry cells clattered to the floor of the cock-pit. The wrapper that contained them was a light silk shawl. Almost simultaneously with the bundle Rosalind herself was aboard.Sam, the boatman, picked up the nearest cell and examined it."Where 'd you get them?" he asked, looking up at her."None of your business," said Rosalind calmly. "I suggest that you put them to work at once."He turned to the box that contained the dead batteries, disconnected the wires, and tossed the useless cells overboard. Then rather clumsily he began wiring the new cells into place.Rosalind, seated opposite, watched the performance with impatience, but said nothing until he had nearly finished. Then it was:"Don't you know better than to connect two positive poles? There—see—between the fourth and fifth cells."He grinned without meeting her eyes and made the necessary change. Very quickly after that the launch was headed into the river, moving without the aid of oars."Nothing like having the master mechanic aboard," observed Sam as he refilled his pipe."Never presume to address me in that manner again," said Rosalind, turning swiftly upon him and drawing her skirt closer to her ankles."All right—Miss Chalmers—ma'am."They ran on for several minutes in silence. Then he inquired indifferently:"Which way did you say you wanted to go?""I didn't say. But"—her arm pointed across the river—"you may take me in that direction until I tell you further.""That's Rockport, on the Canadian side," he observed as he altered the course. "That place where you see the lights.""Very well; head for it."The launch moved onward for fifteen minutes, only the steady exhaust of the engine breaking the silence. The boatman smoked steadily and devoted the chief part of his time to a study of his passenger's profile. She seemed to be thoroughly oblivious of his presence.Abruptly, when Witherbee's Island was a good two miles astern, she leaned forward and switched off the spark."This will do," she said.Sam made a cursory observation of their position, which was midway in the broad Canadian channel. The nearest island was probably a mile distant."I desire to talk to you," she remarked, turning a calculating pair of eyes upon him. "The reason why we came here is that I did not care to be interrupted."He nodded."I think I may as well tell you," she added, "that I have a pistol with me.""Well, it might come handy if we meet anything," he admitted, not a trace of surprise in his voice.Having reached this initial point in their conversation, Rosalind paused. She was perplexed as to the best way to begin. She was a little worried; but he must never suspect that.A long afternoon hour of study over certain events in which she had been an actor since her embarkation at Clayton the night before had convinced her that it was highly desirable to know something more concerning this common person, who made such poor work of his avowed occupation as a boatman. Yet that was not exactly it, either; what she most wanted to know was something concerning the plans and intentions of this person in case certain contingencies arose."Your name is Sam, I believe?" she asked suddenly."Yes, ma'am.""Sam what?""Oh, Sam anything. Whatever you say; I aim to please.""You live here?""Hereabouts, ma'am.""Of course you are a thief.""You've said that before," he remarked placidly. "You said I was a burglar and a house-breaker, too.""But you are!""Am I?"Rosalind had no patience with people who fenced, but she checked her temper for the moment."After what I observed at an early hour this morning," she said, "I cannot see that there is any doubt of it. You entered and robbed—or attempted to rob—Mr. Davidson's house.""Well," he said slowly, looking up at her, "I don't happen to be on the witness-stand. But I might remark that I didn't enter or attempt to enter Mr. Witherbee's house at any rate."She flushed angrily, but she had learned something."Then you spied," she said.He made a non-committal gesture."It's a matter of no importance," she added hastily. "I believe you understand that I am a guest at the Witherbees'.""Of course," he assented. "I expect you explained the whole thing to them this morning."She looked at him narrowly, but his face was impassive behind its beard. Nevertheless, she had a disquieting feeling that he suspected she had not explained anything—and did not care to explain."But you were simply a plain intruder at Mr. Davidson's," Rosalind went on."I haven't admitted it, ma'am.""Oh, why quibble about it?" she exclaimed."All right, then; we won't quibble," he answered, after a second's thought. "We'll go to it a little bit straighter. I'll say this: I did land on Mr. Davidson's island. That'll be enough for a while—except this: I wasn't working alone.""You mean, there was somebody else who—""Always," remarked Sam confidentially, "when there's a house-breaking to be pulled off—that is, 'most always—a man doesn't work alone. He has to have one pal. If he does the inside work, his pal sticks around outside, doing lookout duty, and to help make the getaway. It's one of the most important parts of the job. Now, whatever I did or didn't do at Davidson's last night, the fact remained that I needed my pal a whole lot when it came to making a quick duck."He paused and studied her, a faint twinkle in his dark eyes."You mean—"Rosalind's voice was trembling."I mean that my pal started an engine that I couldn't have started in a year," he added, complacently."You—you villain!""Ma'am?""You unspeakable scoundrel!"Rosalind had risen to her feet. Her hand crept to a pocket in her sweater."You hit on a new name that time, ma'am.""You dare to say," she exclaimed in an unsteady voice, "that I was in any way associated with—with—whatever you did at Mr. Davidson's?""Well, now, I haven't said so exactly. Only just try to look at it from the jury's angle."Rosalind choked and sat down. Her fears—fears that she had been trying to smother all afternoon—were realized. This was blackmail!The boatman continued to smoke, unruffled. There was silence for a full minute."I suppose we're all through talking," he observed finally."We are not!"Rosalind's tongue was loosed again."What you have just hinted at is despicable, wicked—depraved! It's beyond belief. You are contemptible enough to take advantage of an entirely innocent situation to make trouble—for a woman! Of course, with you it's entirely a question of money. Therefore, how much?""How much for what?" he inquired mildly."For what! As if you didn't well know—"Never mind; I'll put the thing plainly, if you wish. Through a series of unfortunate circumstances, I engaged you as a boatman last night. Through a second series of circumstances it became impossible for me to announce my arrival at Mr. Witherbee's in the usual manner. Through still another series I had the misfortune to become involved in an affair which you very well know was none of mine."You are a thief; I am not. It happens, however, that I cannot afford to have my name in any way, either directly or indirectly, connected with the escapades of a burglar. The probability is, if you continue to remain in this neighborhood you will be captured. If that event does occur, you undoubtedly have it in mind to drag me into the affair. Therefore, how much?""How much to leave you out of it?""Exactly!"He considered the proposal for a little."How much'll you give?" he inquired cautiously.Rosalind was nonplused. She was not versed in the payment of hush-money. She had no idea whatever concerning the usual rates of compensation."I haven't more than about fifty dollars with me," she said."Fifty, eh? Um! Well, now, suppose I say I don't want anything, ma'am?""You mean—""I mean if I took it, why, it would seem like cutting loose from a pal. And I don't—""You beast!""Another new one," he commented blandly."I have a mind—"She paused midway in the sentence. She did not know what she had a mind to do, to tell the truth. Rosalind was completely dismayed. He meant to hold this thing over her; to terrorize her; perhaps—she turned cold at the thought—to attempt to employ her in some new lawless raid!"Don't worry, ma'am," he said as if reading her thoughts. "I won't say a word to anybody. Lord! I wouldn't tell on you; I justcan't, you see. That being the case, what's the use of my taking your money in that fashion and only creating bad feeling between us?"The boldness of the fellow's assumption sickened her."Please allow me to pay," she said coldly.He shook his head."We'll let it stand the way it is. I never squealed on a pal yet," he replied."I cannot remain under an obligation, no matter how unjust it may be," she declared in a firm voice. "I insist upon paying.""There's no obligation, ma'am—not the least. The account's all square. I did the job; you made the getaway. It's a fifty-fifty proposition. I'm not doing you any favor."Rosalind was in a white fury. Her fingers curled around the stock of the little automatic in her pocket, although she knew quite well she would not employ the weapon. This creature called her his—pal! Called her—a Chalmers—by a vulgar name from his underworld! And she was helpless!"You may take me back," she commanded suddenly."Right!"He started the engine, swung the boat in a wide circle, and laid a course for Witherbee's Island. They had covered half of the return journey before she spoke again. Then:"I may as well warn you that they are preparing to make a thorough hunt for the thief, and that the residents are about to organize, and probably to employ detectives.""Thank you, ma'am.""You may act accordingly or not, as you choose.""It's very kind of you," he said humbly. "I'm sure you show the right spirit, ma'am. That's the way it ought to be between—"Rosalind turned upon him."Don't you ever dare to employ that word to me again!""Oh, all right," he sighed. "I just meant to be neighborly."It was some minutes later when she observed:"I might add that one of the gentlemen staying with Mr. Witherbee is already on the watch for you."The boatman looked surprised."He uses a pair of glasses to keep track of you.""What's his name?""Mr. Morton."An exclamation from the steersman."Morton—the Englishman?""Evidently you know him.""N-no; I don't exactly know him. But I know who you mean. Tall man, yellow mustache?"Rosalind nodded."Hum!" said Sam reflectively. "How long has he been at Witherbee's?""I haven't the least idea.""He's spoken of me, has he?""Yes.""What did he say?""Why, nothing really; except that he asked some questions in order to identify you and said he had seen you. I told him you had brought me down.""Did you tell him when I brought you?" inquired the boatman."Well, I said—or perhaps I let him infer—that you brought me down this morning."Sam laughed quietly."That's an alibi that might do nicely for both of us," he commented. "Much obliged. Did he mention my name?""He knows that you are called Sam," said Rosalind shortly."I see. Quite a chap, isn't he, don't you know?"The voice of the boatman was rather satirical."And I'll tell you something else," she continued. "Mr. Davidson is convinced there is some queer work going on here, and he mentioned a boat hailing him last night while he was out in his yacht.""So you've found out it was Davidson's yacht, then?""I have."Sam seemed to find cause for gentle mirth."I think I can now understand," she added, "why you refused to let him help us. Even a burglar may have a certain delicacy about accepting a favor from his intended victim.""That might be true," he admitted.They were approaching Witherbee's Island when Rosalind's glance fell upon a book that lay open on the floor of the cock-pit. Idly she picked it up and glanced at the cover. It was a copy of Hamersly's "Social Register."For an instant she stared at the title with astonished eyes. Not that the volume was strange to her; far from that. Rosalind Chalmers was thoroughly acquainted with this most exclusive of all publications that list the names of the families who are really and truly entitled to enter the social holy of holies. What amazed her was the presence of the volume in such an uncouth environment. She turned to the fly-leaf. Thereon was written in a bold hand:HENRY DAVIDSON
CHAPTER V
THE PLOT CURDLES
"Why—why—"
She checked herself and reflected swiftly. She must not—she could not—claim it.
"Why," faltered Miss Chalmers weakly, "what a curious bracelet!"
"Isn't it, though?" exclaimed Mrs. Witherbee, holding it up so that the light played upon the dull gold. "That's what all of us said. We're having a time trying to decide who will keep it—that is, of course, if nobody claims it. Gertrude is crazy about it; Polly Dawson wants it; I fancy it tremendously myself."
"May I see it?" asked Miss Chalmers.
She gazed more sadly than curiously at the bauble Mrs. Witherbee dropped into her palm.
"Notice the carving," urged Mrs. Witherbee. "Did you ever see anything so odd?"
"It's very odd," assented the owner dully.
"And not a jewel in it!"
"Not a jewel," echoed Miss Chalmers, shaking her head.
"Gertrude and I have been wondering where in the world it was purchased. We both want one. But there isn't the sign of a maker's mark; it doesn't even say how many carats."
The artistic soul of Miss Chalmers was in revolt. Maker! Carats! There was something shockingly coarse in the suggestion. How little they understood! Nobody in the whole world knew the name of the artisan who fashioned it, nor ever would know. He went to his peace five thousand years ago. There were no carats in those days; not for this workman. For he made the thing for a princess, and he made it of pure gold.
Nowhere, unless in some undiscovered tomb in Egypt, was there anywhere its mate. Weighed in the scales of trade, it might have brought fifty dollars as metal. To Miss Chalmers it was a thing beyond price.
She knew little of its history save this: Only two women in the world had worn it. One was a princess, daughter of some forgotten Pharaoh. It was upon her wrist when they opened the tomb. The other woman was Rosalind Chalmers.
Just how Reginald Williams came into possession of it Miss Chalmers never knew, but he had brought it to America for her. And she had worn it with a pleasant sense of satisfaction in the fact that the bracelet had merely been transferred from the arm of a dead princess to a living one. Miss Chalmers, rightly enough, had an excellent opinion of herself.
Reggy Williams thought she wore it for him. It was neither kind nor worth while to tell him his mistake. The reason she wore it had partly to do with the Egyptian princess and partly with the fact that it was unique and beautiful.
Now, as it lay in her hand, she experienced a sense of dismay. She could snap it about her arm, of course, and then explain—explain that— Of course she couldnot! No; that was out of the question. Not after all she had told them that morning.
Into Miss Chalmers's mind flashed the memory of a sound that had reached her ears, even in the tremendous din of the Witherbee burglar-alarm. She recalled it as a rattling noise, but had given it no second thought in her panic. The discovery of her bracelet in the possession of her hosts supplied an exasperating explanation. She asked absently:
"You say the burglar dropped it?"
"Right on the porch where he had opened the window," said Mrs. Witherbee.
"Tom says it was quite a little distance from the window, mother," interrupted Gertrude.
"It was on the porch, at any rate," continued the hostess. "We think he had just stolen it from some other island. It's not likely a man would be carrying a thing like that around for any length of time.
"Tom found it while they were hunting with the lantern last night. We're going to make inquiries, of course; but, to tell you the truth, dear, we're just hoping a little that the owner won't be found. In that case we'll keep it."
"You mean I'll keep it, mother," said Gertrude.
"Well, Polly wants it, too, my dear. Probably the best way will be to send it to the city and have copies made. Then we can each have one."
Miss Chalmers shuddered.
"We've all tried it on, but I think it fits me best," asserted Gertrude.
The owner felt dizzy. It had been tried on—defiled!
"You can wear it for a while, if you like, Rosalind," said Gertrude generously.
"No, thank you," answered Miss Chalmers as she returned the bracelet to Mrs. Witherbee.
Her voice was flat and faint.
After that Tom Witherbee joined the group and the tale of the midnight alarm was spun again. Then came Polly Dawson, short, plump, and light-headed—both ways, for she was blonde—and Polly told it all over, but in such different fashion, and with such a completely new set of facts that it became quite a new story.
Afterward a few others came straggling down—the two Winter girls, Fortescue Jones, and a dull-looking youth named Perkins, of whom Miss Chalmers had never heard. And presently Mr. Morton, rearrayed, made his second appearance that morning. He bowed again very formally to the new guest.
It was a dull breakfast for Miss Chalmers. Everybody except herself babbled incessantly about the burglar, the bracelet, and the hunt by lantern-light.
The trinket of a princess was now upon Polly Dawson's arm, she having beseeched Gertrude to let her wear it during the forenoon at least. The owner eyed it gloomily and made plans. Even though it had been desecrated, she did not propose to abandon it to utter vandalism. She did not even intend that any vulgar modern craftsman should make copies of it.
When the moment was opportune, Miss Chalmers proposed to steal it. Of course she could never wear it again in the presence of the Witherbees or any of their guests; but she would possess it at any rate.
Breakfast was served on a broad porch at the rear of the house, which was the Witherbees' dining-room for all meals when the weather was fine. It was not yet finished when Miss Chalmers saw something as she glanced beyond the railing that fascinated her.
She stared fixedly, then brought her glance suddenly back to the table and furtively examined the faces of her hosts and fellow guests. After that she looked over the railing again. If she grew a shade paler, nobody appeared to observe the fact; nor did any one notice she had become restless.
After a minute or two she rose and walked toward the steps. They descended to a lawn that was broken with shrubs and flower-beds and paths.
"Where away, Rosalind?" called Gertrude.
"I want to see the garden," she called back.
But instead of making directly for the garden she followed a course closely parallel to the porch, which brought her to a pathway that led from a rear door of the house to a small outbuilding that served as a summer kitchen.
"Wait! Stop, Rosalind!"
She did not seem to hear, but stepped upon the path.
"You'll ruin your shoes!" cried Mrs. Witherbee.
"That concrete was just laid yesterday. It's soft." Miss Chalmers looked down at the path, then took a step forward as if to verify. Still unsatisfied, she tested the path once, twice, thrice, with her immaculate shoes. Then she turned and looked up at Mrs. Witherbee.
"Why, how stupid of me!" she exclaimed. "It is soft, isn't it?"
She moved toward the porch, treading again upon the slightly yielding surface. Then she stepped back upon the grass.
"I'm so sorry," she murmured. "I'm afraid I've marked your path."
She paused to study the footprints. There were nine distinct impressions in the concrete. One was slightly deeper than its mates.
"They won't notice that little difference," she reflected. "But I hope to Heaven nobody took the trouble to observe that I stepped on the path only eight times."
Then she wandered off into the garden, with a remark upon the unexplained magnetism that wet paint, particularly when so labeled, exercises upon meddlesome fingers.
(Moral: In order to cover your trail be the first to discover it—and then multiply.)
"It's rather exacting work," thought Miss Chal—
Wait a minute! This eternal "Miss Chalmers" is tiresome. We've known her for at least twelve hours; we're going to know her much better. Nearly everybody else is calling her "Rosalind." Why stand aloof?
"It's rather exacting work," thought Rosalind, "this business of arriving at unconventional hours and then making believe that everything was thoroughly conventional. If they don't stop talking about clues I shall go mad."
If there was one thing that particularly bored Rosalind it was discussion of a topic plunged into with undisguised relish by Mrs. Witherbee, when that good lady joined her in the garden and deftly maneuvered her beyond the hearing of the others.
"Is it seventeen now, my dear, or eighteen?" asked Mrs. Witherbee with a knowing little chuckle.
"Seventeen—or eighteen?" puzzled Rosalind. "I don't understand."
She did, however, because Mrs. Witherbee always approached the subject from the numerical angle.
"You know very well, my dear. Do not pretend. I thought the last one was the seventeenth, but Gertrude is sure he was the eighteenth. It was Mr. Williams, wasn't it?"
"Oh, please!" protested Rosalind.
"Oh, please?" echoed Mrs. Witherbee, hugging Rosalind's arm. "Oh, shucks, you mean! Why shouldn't we talk about it? Everybody else who knows you talks about it. Why shouldn't I?"
"But—but it's so intimately my own affair," said Rosalind, annoyed.
"It's more than your affair, dear. It's the affair of seventeen or eighteen perfectly nice young men—I wish to goodness I could remember the exact count! Seventeen or eighteen eligible men—all ready to marry you if you say the word."
"All!" exclaimed Rosalind in a shocked tone. "Why, Mrs. Witherbee!"
"Well, you know what I mean," declared Mrs. Witherbee. "Of course you wouldn't marry them all. But it could be any one of the seventeen or eighteen. Now, couldn't it, Rosalind?"
Rosalind sighed, not because she was either romantic or pensive, but out of sheer despair.
"I presume it could be," she admitted.
"Oh, you heart-breaker!" chided Mrs. Witherbee confidentially.
"I'm not!" declared Rosalind stoutly. "There isn't a broken heart among them. Their hearts are all perfectly sound and serviceable. They're not only air-cooled, but water-jacketed, and not one of them ever had a misfire on my account."
"Rosalind! What in the world are you talking about?"
"Oh, well, please let's not talk about it any more. I can't stop them from asking me, can I?"
"No, but— Why, some of us wonder if you ever will be married!"
Rosalind shook her head wearily.
"Oh, I suppose I'll be married some day; most women are. Meantime, what's the use of considering and plotting and planning, or even bothering about it? When a girl wants to get married she can do it—any time. There's nothing mysterious or unprecedented about it. It's been done several times, I believe."
"You're so cynical, Rosalind."
"I'm not—not in the least. I'm merely sane. Listen, now! Whose voice is that? You seem to have callers."
"It sounds like Mr. Davidson," said Mrs. Witherbee, listening. "He's one of our neighbors. Shall we go and see?"
They walked to the front of the house, where a group of persons stood in a circle around an elderly man who talked volubly.
"Come and listen to this," advised Mr. Witherbee, beckoning. "Davidson had a thief last night, too. Same one, probably. Miss Chalmers, let me present Mr. Davidson—one of our island neighbors."
Mr. Davidson bowed briefly, then resumed his recital in a voice that Rosalind remembered quite well.
"We thought he was all alone at first. He started up his launch, and then he had a breakdown. Thought I had him sure then. But, by jingo! Do you know there was another fellow lying out there in a rowboat? He was keeping watch, I suppose. The second chap climbed into the launch, and they managed to get things started again.
"Even then we'd have had 'em in a fair race. He cut loose his rowboat after a while, and we smashed into that; we didn't stop to pick up the splinters. That delayed us a little, of course.
"But he put one over on us by slipping through that channel that splits Houghton's Island. I wouldn't take a chance on it. By the time we went around the island he wasn't in sight."
"A pair of them, you said?" asked Mr. Witherbee.
"A whole gang, likely enough; but we saw only two. Don't know whether I hit any of 'em or not."
"Anything stolen?"
"Now, there's the queer part," affirmed Mr. Davidson. "Not a blessed thing, so far as we can discover, unless it was something out of the library that we haven't been able to locate as yet.
"He seemed to have spent all his time in the library, as nearly as I can find out. He had a lot of books out on the floor. Perhaps he thought we hid things behind them. We can't find that he did anything except mess with the books."
If Rosalind was afire with curiosity she did not betray the fact. Outwardly she maintained the frigid poise that had been the despair of the seventeen or eighteen.
"Well, from your story," commented Mr. Witherbee, "he got to your place after he visited us. He had hard luck here; he lost something. Who's got the bracelet? Here, Polly! Show it to Mr. Davidson."
Polly held out her arm.
"If he hadn't visited us first I would have thought probably he stole it from your place," said Witherbee.
Mr. Davidson glanced at the bracelet and shook his head.
"Haven't got any junk like that in our house," he declared. "Never saw it before."
Rosalind flamed with resentment, but remained silent. Junk!
"We've got to organize; that's all," declared Witherbee.
"It's a cinch something's got to be done," growled Davidson. "I tell you, there's funny goings-on around this place. Earlier last night, for instance. We were coming down the river in the yacht when somebody hailed us from a small boat. One of 'em—sounded like a woman, too—wanted help. The other one—a man—didn't want any help. Seemed to be having a row among themselves, so I didn't butt in."
Rosalind was too bewildered to analyze the relation of this episode to what happened later. She merely made a mental note of the facts for future consideration.
A man in overalls approached Mr. Witherbee and touched his cap.
"One of the skiffs is gone, sir—the new one," he said.
"Then he did steal something, after all!" exclaimed Witherbee. "Isn't that the devil now? I suppose that was the skiff you ran down, Davidson."
"I suppose so," said Davidson gloomily. "Sorry."
"Oh, that's all right. Don't bother. But, say, Davidson, you ought to do something for your own protection. Put in a burglar-alarm like ours, for instance."
"Burglar-alarm!" snorted Davidson. "What do I keep dogs for? And what good are the dogs, either? I threatened to shoot 'em last night. I'm not sure but I will, even yet. That rascally nephew of mine spoiled those dogs. They've been mooning around the place ever since I shipped him off to New York. By Judas! I'd bring him back if it wasn't for the fact that I'm getting good reports about him. Witherbee, he's actually making good! Had a letter from Hastings & Hatch only this morning. He'll be a regular banker some day, they tell me. Would you have ever thought that?"
"I never would," admitted Witherbee.
Rosalind wanted to slip away and think. She wanted to be undisturbed, so she might put together the pieces of the puzzle, which seemed to have been jigsawed into hopeless confusion.
What she wanted most to know was just where she fitted into it. If there was to be serious burglar-hunting, if clues were being scattered about indiscriminately, she was considerably concerned as to where they might all lead.
When Mr. Davidson had apparently arrived at the end of his facts and was turning to comment and speculation she detached herself from the group and wandered off to the summer pavilion, which she had first found during the course of her exploration in the dark hours.
But she was not to be left alone. Mr. Morton, stroking his blond mustache, strolled in pursuit.
"Funny, by Jove! Isn't it, now?" he said. "Everybody chasing somebody, you know, and nobody catching anybody. I say it's confounded strange. What's your theory, Miss Chalmers?"
"I never theorize," said Rosalind shortly.
"Oh—ah—I see. Hum! Not a bad plan, that, either; not at all bad. Saves one a whole lot of bother, I should think."
"Decidedly."
"Oh, yes, a lot of bother," he went on aimlessly. "But we can't all do it successfully, you know. Deuced difficult not to think about anything."
Rosalind's caution was uppermost. This drawling Morton person was somewhat enigmatic. She could not tell exactly why, but she was ill at ease.
Presently he seemed to remember something, for he turned toward the river, of which the summer pavilion commanded a sweeping view, took his field-glasses from his pocket, and devoted himself to another of those surveys at which she had surprised him in the early hours. Rosalind watched in silence.
"Not a sign," he observed after a long scrutiny.
"Of what?"
"I— Oh, I beg your pardon. Did not know I had spoken—really. Nothing at all, Miss Chalmers; nothing at all."
"Do you commonly look for nothing?"
"Had me there!" he exclaimed. "I suppose one doesn't really look for nothing, even if one expects nothing. Why—I—I was just looking for a boat; that's all. Nothing of importance, I assure you."
Rosalind's thoughts reverted to Sam, her burglarious boatman. What did this man know about him? Why had he questioned her so down on the wharf?
She was framing a guarded inquiry when Polly Dawson gurgled into the pavilion.
"Oh, Mr. Morton! I thought we were to play tennis this morning," she cried.
"Right you are!" he assented—with surprising alacrity, Rosalind thought. "Upon my word, I'd forgotten, Miss Polly. Awfully kind of you to look me up. You'll excuse me, Miss Chalmers? Or will you join us at the courts?"
"I think I'll excuse you," said Rosalind, deliberately.
He stared for a brief instant.
"Why, yes; yes—of course. Awfully kind of you, too."
Polly Dawson had him by the arm and was insistently urging him in the direction of the courts. As they passed out of the pavilion Rosalind caught another glimpse of her bracelet. She gritted her teeth.
"Now, let's see just where I stand," she murmured to herself, and began checking off her thoughts on her fingers.
CHAPTER VI
"PALS!"
A dirty gray boat, quite too large for a skiff, was being slowly propelled against the current with the aid of a pair of oars. The man who furnished the power was talking torridly to himself, to the boat, and to the oars, with occasional digressions in which he addressed himself to the river, the waning day, and the Goddess of Luck. He perspired a great deal more than he progressed.
Once he paused to wipe his forehead, an occupation which gave him opportunity to survey a nearby shore. Upon that shore he observed a lady walking. The lady was alone. The boatman smiled. He believed he could easily understand why the lady was alone, provided her tongue had not been paralyzed. He remembered it as a tongue that fended people off.
As he looked at the slowly moving figure it came to a halt. At the distance and in the dusk the boatman could not be sure that she was looking at him, yet he rested on his oars, waiting.
He saw something wave—a scarf or a handkerchief perhaps. He smiled again behind his shabby beard. Then he headed his boat toward the shore.
Not until he was close to the island did he turn his head, and then with the remark:
"Did you call me, ma'am?"
"What's the trouble now?" she asked sharply as a rejoinder.
"No trouble at all that I know of."
"Why are you rowing?"
"Oh! You mean about the boat? Why, my batteries have gone dead."
"How long since you replaced the cells?"
"I don't know. Maybe a year."
Rosalind Chalmers uttered an exclamation of disgust.
"I wish to be taken somewhere," she said. "It's important."
"I'll do my best to row you. How far is it—Europe?"
"I do not care to be rowed," she said. Her tone would have frozen mercury.
"Well, I'm headed for Clayton," he observed. "To buy some batteries. It's a long, long way; but if you'll be here until I get back I'll be at your service."
Rosalind considered briefly.
"If I find a set of cells for you," she said, "may I employ you for an hour or two?"
"Surest thing you know, ma'am."
"You'll wait here?"
"I'll not budge."
"Don't come to the dock," she warned.
"No fear."
She disappeared among the trees at a brisk walk, while the boatman edged his craft closer to the shore, made fast to a shelf of rock, and prepared to smoke. Twice he chuckled, once broke into a low laugh, as he sat in the stern of his launch, and waited.
As the dusk thickened he lighted a grimy lantern. Its dim, yellow rays illuminated the cock-pit, and his eyes fell upon a book that lay on the floor. He reached for it, and picked it up, and began a casual study of its pages.
There was one page, however, to which he reverted at frequent intervals, finally devoting his undivided attention to a study of it. He was thus engaged when a light footstep caused him to drop the volume.
The lady was standing within a few feet of him, a bundle in her arms.
"Catch it!" she commanded.
It unrolled itself as it reached his arms, and half a dozen dry cells clattered to the floor of the cock-pit. The wrapper that contained them was a light silk shawl. Almost simultaneously with the bundle Rosalind herself was aboard.
Sam, the boatman, picked up the nearest cell and examined it.
"Where 'd you get them?" he asked, looking up at her.
"None of your business," said Rosalind calmly. "I suggest that you put them to work at once."
He turned to the box that contained the dead batteries, disconnected the wires, and tossed the useless cells overboard. Then rather clumsily he began wiring the new cells into place.
Rosalind, seated opposite, watched the performance with impatience, but said nothing until he had nearly finished. Then it was:
"Don't you know better than to connect two positive poles? There—see—between the fourth and fifth cells."
He grinned without meeting her eyes and made the necessary change. Very quickly after that the launch was headed into the river, moving without the aid of oars.
"Nothing like having the master mechanic aboard," observed Sam as he refilled his pipe.
"Never presume to address me in that manner again," said Rosalind, turning swiftly upon him and drawing her skirt closer to her ankles.
"All right—Miss Chalmers—ma'am."
They ran on for several minutes in silence. Then he inquired indifferently:
"Which way did you say you wanted to go?"
"I didn't say. But"—her arm pointed across the river—"you may take me in that direction until I tell you further."
"That's Rockport, on the Canadian side," he observed as he altered the course. "That place where you see the lights."
"Very well; head for it."
The launch moved onward for fifteen minutes, only the steady exhaust of the engine breaking the silence. The boatman smoked steadily and devoted the chief part of his time to a study of his passenger's profile. She seemed to be thoroughly oblivious of his presence.
Abruptly, when Witherbee's Island was a good two miles astern, she leaned forward and switched off the spark.
"This will do," she said.
Sam made a cursory observation of their position, which was midway in the broad Canadian channel. The nearest island was probably a mile distant.
"I desire to talk to you," she remarked, turning a calculating pair of eyes upon him. "The reason why we came here is that I did not care to be interrupted."
He nodded.
"I think I may as well tell you," she added, "that I have a pistol with me."
"Well, it might come handy if we meet anything," he admitted, not a trace of surprise in his voice.
Having reached this initial point in their conversation, Rosalind paused. She was perplexed as to the best way to begin. She was a little worried; but he must never suspect that.
A long afternoon hour of study over certain events in which she had been an actor since her embarkation at Clayton the night before had convinced her that it was highly desirable to know something more concerning this common person, who made such poor work of his avowed occupation as a boatman. Yet that was not exactly it, either; what she most wanted to know was something concerning the plans and intentions of this person in case certain contingencies arose.
"Your name is Sam, I believe?" she asked suddenly.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Sam what?"
"Oh, Sam anything. Whatever you say; I aim to please."
"You live here?"
"Hereabouts, ma'am."
"Of course you are a thief."
"You've said that before," he remarked placidly. "You said I was a burglar and a house-breaker, too."
"But you are!"
"Am I?"
Rosalind had no patience with people who fenced, but she checked her temper for the moment.
"After what I observed at an early hour this morning," she said, "I cannot see that there is any doubt of it. You entered and robbed—or attempted to rob—Mr. Davidson's house."
"Well," he said slowly, looking up at her, "I don't happen to be on the witness-stand. But I might remark that I didn't enter or attempt to enter Mr. Witherbee's house at any rate."
She flushed angrily, but she had learned something.
"Then you spied," she said.
He made a non-committal gesture.
"It's a matter of no importance," she added hastily. "I believe you understand that I am a guest at the Witherbees'."
"Of course," he assented. "I expect you explained the whole thing to them this morning."
She looked at him narrowly, but his face was impassive behind its beard. Nevertheless, she had a disquieting feeling that he suspected she had not explained anything—and did not care to explain.
"But you were simply a plain intruder at Mr. Davidson's," Rosalind went on.
"I haven't admitted it, ma'am."
"Oh, why quibble about it?" she exclaimed.
"All right, then; we won't quibble," he answered, after a second's thought. "We'll go to it a little bit straighter. I'll say this: I did land on Mr. Davidson's island. That'll be enough for a while—except this: I wasn't working alone."
"You mean, there was somebody else who—"
"Always," remarked Sam confidentially, "when there's a house-breaking to be pulled off—that is, 'most always—a man doesn't work alone. He has to have one pal. If he does the inside work, his pal sticks around outside, doing lookout duty, and to help make the getaway. It's one of the most important parts of the job. Now, whatever I did or didn't do at Davidson's last night, the fact remained that I needed my pal a whole lot when it came to making a quick duck."
He paused and studied her, a faint twinkle in his dark eyes.
"You mean—"
Rosalind's voice was trembling.
"I mean that my pal started an engine that I couldn't have started in a year," he added, complacently.
"You—you villain!"
"Ma'am?"
"You unspeakable scoundrel!"
Rosalind had risen to her feet. Her hand crept to a pocket in her sweater.
"You hit on a new name that time, ma'am."
"You dare to say," she exclaimed in an unsteady voice, "that I was in any way associated with—with—whatever you did at Mr. Davidson's?"
"Well, now, I haven't said so exactly. Only just try to look at it from the jury's angle."
Rosalind choked and sat down. Her fears—fears that she had been trying to smother all afternoon—were realized. This was blackmail!
The boatman continued to smoke, unruffled. There was silence for a full minute.
"I suppose we're all through talking," he observed finally.
"We are not!"
Rosalind's tongue was loosed again.
"What you have just hinted at is despicable, wicked—depraved! It's beyond belief. You are contemptible enough to take advantage of an entirely innocent situation to make trouble—for a woman! Of course, with you it's entirely a question of money. Therefore, how much?"
"How much for what?" he inquired mildly.
"For what! As if you didn't well know—
"Never mind; I'll put the thing plainly, if you wish. Through a series of unfortunate circumstances, I engaged you as a boatman last night. Through a second series of circumstances it became impossible for me to announce my arrival at Mr. Witherbee's in the usual manner. Through still another series I had the misfortune to become involved in an affair which you very well know was none of mine.
"You are a thief; I am not. It happens, however, that I cannot afford to have my name in any way, either directly or indirectly, connected with the escapades of a burglar. The probability is, if you continue to remain in this neighborhood you will be captured. If that event does occur, you undoubtedly have it in mind to drag me into the affair. Therefore, how much?"
"How much to leave you out of it?"
"Exactly!"
He considered the proposal for a little.
"How much'll you give?" he inquired cautiously.
Rosalind was nonplused. She was not versed in the payment of hush-money. She had no idea whatever concerning the usual rates of compensation.
"I haven't more than about fifty dollars with me," she said.
"Fifty, eh? Um! Well, now, suppose I say I don't want anything, ma'am?"
"You mean—"
"I mean if I took it, why, it would seem like cutting loose from a pal. And I don't—"
"You beast!"
"Another new one," he commented blandly.
"I have a mind—"
She paused midway in the sentence. She did not know what she had a mind to do, to tell the truth. Rosalind was completely dismayed. He meant to hold this thing over her; to terrorize her; perhaps—she turned cold at the thought—to attempt to employ her in some new lawless raid!
"Don't worry, ma'am," he said as if reading her thoughts. "I won't say a word to anybody. Lord! I wouldn't tell on you; I justcan't, you see. That being the case, what's the use of my taking your money in that fashion and only creating bad feeling between us?"
The boldness of the fellow's assumption sickened her.
"Please allow me to pay," she said coldly.
He shook his head.
"We'll let it stand the way it is. I never squealed on a pal yet," he replied.
"I cannot remain under an obligation, no matter how unjust it may be," she declared in a firm voice. "I insist upon paying."
"There's no obligation, ma'am—not the least. The account's all square. I did the job; you made the getaway. It's a fifty-fifty proposition. I'm not doing you any favor."
Rosalind was in a white fury. Her fingers curled around the stock of the little automatic in her pocket, although she knew quite well she would not employ the weapon. This creature called her his—pal! Called her—a Chalmers—by a vulgar name from his underworld! And she was helpless!
"You may take me back," she commanded suddenly.
"Right!"
He started the engine, swung the boat in a wide circle, and laid a course for Witherbee's Island. They had covered half of the return journey before she spoke again. Then:
"I may as well warn you that they are preparing to make a thorough hunt for the thief, and that the residents are about to organize, and probably to employ detectives."
"Thank you, ma'am."
"You may act accordingly or not, as you choose."
"It's very kind of you," he said humbly. "I'm sure you show the right spirit, ma'am. That's the way it ought to be between—"
Rosalind turned upon him.
"Don't you ever dare to employ that word to me again!"
"Oh, all right," he sighed. "I just meant to be neighborly."
It was some minutes later when she observed:
"I might add that one of the gentlemen staying with Mr. Witherbee is already on the watch for you."
The boatman looked surprised.
"He uses a pair of glasses to keep track of you."
"What's his name?"
"Mr. Morton."
An exclamation from the steersman.
"Morton—the Englishman?"
"Evidently you know him."
"N-no; I don't exactly know him. But I know who you mean. Tall man, yellow mustache?"
Rosalind nodded.
"Hum!" said Sam reflectively. "How long has he been at Witherbee's?"
"I haven't the least idea."
"He's spoken of me, has he?"
"Yes."
"What did he say?"
"Why, nothing really; except that he asked some questions in order to identify you and said he had seen you. I told him you had brought me down."
"Did you tell him when I brought you?" inquired the boatman.
"Well, I said—or perhaps I let him infer—that you brought me down this morning."
Sam laughed quietly.
"That's an alibi that might do nicely for both of us," he commented. "Much obliged. Did he mention my name?"
"He knows that you are called Sam," said Rosalind shortly.
"I see. Quite a chap, isn't he, don't you know?"
The voice of the boatman was rather satirical.
"And I'll tell you something else," she continued. "Mr. Davidson is convinced there is some queer work going on here, and he mentioned a boat hailing him last night while he was out in his yacht."
"So you've found out it was Davidson's yacht, then?"
"I have."
Sam seemed to find cause for gentle mirth.
"I think I can now understand," she added, "why you refused to let him help us. Even a burglar may have a certain delicacy about accepting a favor from his intended victim."
"That might be true," he admitted.
They were approaching Witherbee's Island when Rosalind's glance fell upon a book that lay open on the floor of the cock-pit. Idly she picked it up and glanced at the cover. It was a copy of Hamersly's "Social Register."
For an instant she stared at the title with astonished eyes. Not that the volume was strange to her; far from that. Rosalind Chalmers was thoroughly acquainted with this most exclusive of all publications that list the names of the families who are really and truly entitled to enter the social holy of holies. What amazed her was the presence of the volume in such an uncouth environment. She turned to the fly-leaf. Thereon was written in a bold hand:
HENRY DAVIDSON