She looked at the boatman. He was intent upon a course that would land them at the point where Rosalind had embarked upon her baffling voyage.Davidson! This, then, was the explanation of the rummaged library! This—a Social Register—constituted the booty of a thief!Again she ventured a glance at Sam. He did not appear to notice that she had picked up the book.Her fingers marked the spot at which the volume lay open. Now she turned to the page. Rosalind gasped softly when she found herself among the C's—yes, and at that very page among the C's that listed the habitat, the personnel, and the lineage of the Chalmers family of New York!The book dropped from her hands and thudded gently upon the flooring. A sensation of vague alarm succeeded her initial amazement.What was the creature planning now?As the boat touched the island she leaped ashore quickly, and started in the direction of the house."Wait, please!" called the boatman.She halted."I guess you forgot something, didn't you?" he said."Forgot? Oh—you mean I am to pay you?""Yes, ma'am.""How much?"Her purse was in her hand."Only five this time."She handed him the money without a word."Any other time you want a boat," he observed, "you can find me 'most anywhere.""I suppose," she said frigidly, "that that is part of the price—of silence?""I didn't put it that way," he answered good-naturedly. "But I certainly do like to have a handy passenger on board."She was moving away when he halted her again."By the way, Miss Chalmers, you might tell me something. Once in a while this old bunch of junk they call an engine seems to get all heated up over nothing at all, even when she's not running fast. Now, when she does that, ought I—""Hire a mechanic!" she said sharply."That's what I thought," he drawled. "I'll be looking you up real soon at that rate."Rosalind was gone.CHAPTER VIINEW SLANTSThe boatman, after swinging well clear of Witherbee's Island, hesitated as to his course. "There might be an answer to-night," he muttered. "Still, it's pretty quick, seeing I only wired this morning. I guess I'll wait until to-morrow. I'll be sure to hear then."Without further ado he headed the launch into the channel that runs between Wellesley and Hill islands, following a course so nearly midway between them that the wake of his craft would have served as a visible boundary-line between the United States and Canada. Several motor-boats passed him; one hailed sharply, warning him to show lights. He paid no attention, but steadily held his way.Half an hour of running brought him opposite a small, dark spot on the water, around which he described a half-circle while he kept his eyes intently upon it. Then, apparently satisfied, he headed in toward what proved to be a rocky, wooded island.There was a natural landing-place at the point he touched—a cove protected on three sides by bulwarks of the gneiss rock that rises stalwart, here as elsewhere, out of the great St. Lawrence.Making fast his craft, he stepped ashore, and followed a narrow path that struggled over the stony surface, beset on either side by underbrush and small trees.The path ended at a cabin. He pushed open a door, entered, searched about in the darkness for a moment, then struck a match and lighted the wick of a lantern that stood on a table in the center of the single room.The cabin was clean, plain, and cheerless. There was a cot in one corner, a small iron stove, a shelf with a few cooking-utensils, and one chair."No place like home," he commented with a grin. "And I suppose I'll be kicked out of here if anybody gets wise."He helped himself to a few crackers from a tin box on the shelf, sat down, and began munching them in an absent-minded manner. Presently his wandering glance fixed itself upon a broken mirror that hung from a nail driven into one of the walls. He picked up the lantern, advanced across the cabin, and held the light so that he could survey himself in the glass."You're a nice-looking object," he assured his reflection as one hand stroked his beard. "I've got a mind—"A lidless cigar-box nailed against the wall contained a razor, a lather-brush, and half a cake of soap. He picked up the razor and once more studied himself in the mirror."No," he said, shaking his head slowly as he returned the razor to its place. "Don't get foolish. You can't be useful and beautiful at the same time."He replaced the lantern on the table and went to the cot, where he stretched himself on the gray blankets and lay staring up at the roof-boards for many minutes. The boatman's thoughts were apparently amusing, for once he laughed aloud, while many times he chuckled."That was a close go last night," he remarked, addressing himself to a knot-hole, through which, by a little maneuvering of his head, he could focus a brilliant star. "Just a little closer and they'd have had me. It was the master mechanic who did the trick."Some mechanic, too! A pal worth having, that lady—a sort of lucky strike, it looks to me. She's not gentle exactly, with that tongue of hers; but she's all there when it comes to getting action. Had a gun in her pocket, too."He laughed again."A gun—for poor Sam!" he added. "Guess I'll have to be careful. And yet—"No, sir! I'm not going to lose sight of this proposition. It looks too good to me. And right on the same island, by Jiminy! Couldn't be planted better—for me. Why, she's just got to be a pal!"Presently he closed his eyes and made an effort to sleep, a task which he abandoned with suddenness after five minutes."No use; I'm too curious," he muttered, rising. "I'm going up to Clayton. It might happen to have come in."He blew out the light and walked from the cabin, making his way back to where the launch was moored. A moment later he was backing out of the cove. Then he headed northward, through the narrowing waterway that led him past Swiftwater Point, and then along the channel that sweeps the shore of Wellesley Island.Abreast of the lights of Grand View, he swung almost due south and laid a course for Clayton, making the briefest possible detours to avoid the islands that lay in his path.At Clayton he sought a small, obscure wharf, to which he made fast the launch. His excursion into town carried him upon none of the principal thoroughfares, but wound an irregular course through back streets, until he found himself at a small, poorly lighted frame building that served the double purpose of hotel and saloon.He entered by a side door, took a seat at a table in a dingy corner of a back room and rapped smartly with his knuckles on the pine top. There was a shuffling of feet in the bar-room and a man appeared through a swinging-door, wiping his hands on a dirty apron as he came."Hello, Sam!" he said."Anything come?" asked the boatman abruptly.For answer the man in the apron began a search of his pockets, finally producing a folded yellow envelope. The boatman reached for it quickly and ran his finger under the flap of the envelope."Ginger ale," he said briefly without looking up.The bearer of the message went back to the bar-room to fill the order.As Sam's eyes read the telegram they widened perceptibly. He smiled faintly, then nodded, carefully placed the telegram and its envelope in the pocket of his shirt, and looked up at the returning bearer of his drink."Everything O.K., I hope," observed the man in the apron, as he stood a glass and a bottle on the table."O.K.," confirmed Sam. "I might have to have another message sent here. Will it be all right?""Sure; as many as you like. It ain't costing me anything."The boatman drank his ginger ale hastily, threw a quarter on the table, and went out.Now, whistling softly and complacently, he strolled through a more pretentious part of the town, halting occasionally to examine store windows. He entered one place, made some trivial purchases, and offered in payment therefor a five-dollar bill that had until recently reposed in the purse of the master mechanic."Yep; a mighty useful pal," he murmured as he gathered up his change."How's that?" asked the storekeeper."I was just telling myself that money is a man's best friend," said the boatman as he strolled out.The storekeeper watched the departing customer, then turned to the cash-drawer and made a second examination of the five-dollar note.Sam made his way directly to the wharf where he had moored his launch, stepped aboard and made ready to cast off. Then he bethought himself of his engine."Needs oil, I guess. The master mechanic would give me the dickens if she knew how long I've run without filling the cups," he chuckled.Forward under the half-deck he kept a gallon can. Now he got upon his hands and knees and crawled part way into the dark hole, groping ahead of him as he went.There was nothing tidy or methodical in the arrangement of his ship's stores, so he spent a full minute, feeling about, before his hand came in contact with the oil-can. Then as he was backing from his cramped quarters a scraping sound attracted his attention. Another launch had touched the wharf. Something impelled the boatman to remain quietly where he lay in the bottom of his craft. Perhaps it was the guarded note in the voice of a man who was talking."I knew it wouldn't do any good to go out to-night," said the voice."Well, it helped us to get the lay of the place a bit at any rate," answered a second voice."But I don't believe the stuff is coming out through Gananoque at all. And I'm not satisfied that it's coming in here, either.""Where do you think it's coming from?""Kingston.""That wasn't the tip from Washington.""I know that. But Kingston's a lot more likely. It's bigger, and that's some advantage when you don't want folks to notice you too much.""And where do you think it's coming in?""Oh, blazes! How can we tell yet? There's a dozen places anywhere along here for twenty or thirty miles. And you can bet it doesn't come across in the same place twice."The boatman breathed softly and lay clasping his oil-can. The men in the other launch were making their boat fast now."You're dead sure Washington's not just guessing about this?" observed the second speaker, a note of doubt in his voice. "Not that I mind sticking around a nice place like this for a while, but I'd like to show something for my time.""They've got to do a certain amount of guessing, of course," said the other. "But it's not all guess. They're getting the thing fairly well located, and it's ciphering down to this part of the river. We know mighty well that Canada isn't beginning to use, not by half, the diamonds that have been shipped in from Antwerp. They're getting across the line to a certainty. There was a bunch of stuff got into New York last week, and the man who brought it had a railroad ticket that read from Clayton. We're still holding the stuff, but we can't prove anything yet.""Maybe there's a half-way joint out here?""You mean on one of the islands? I've had that in mind. That's one reason I hired the boat. We'll do a little sightseeing to-morrow and get some new bearings."The talkers were on the little wharf now. Sam pressed his body close against the flooring of the cock-pit."Well, I'm tired," said one. "Let's go on up to bed. It's all right to leave the boat here, is it?""That's what the man said. It's his dock."Footsteps passed close to the boatman's craft."There's a boat come in since we were here," commented a voice. "He didn't mind hogging the best part of the dock either, did he?"The second man laughed as the pair went on up the sloping gangway that led to the shore.Sam lay motionless until they were gone from his hearing, then cautiously rose to his knees and made an observation. The men were out of sight.He crawled aft, put down the oil-can and sat for several minutes, motionless, considering carefully the fruits of his eavesdropping."So they've got their eye on the islands, have they?" he thought. "Interesting, that. I wonder—"He laughed softly."Why not?" he asked himself after another period of thought. "It may not be a bit of use to Uncle Sam, but it just might happen to make his humble namesake real happy."He stepped out on the wharf and went up the gangway, at the head of which he stood listening and watching for a moment until he was assured that the arrivals in the second launch were safely out of the way. Then he returned to his craft, lighted the lantern, and squatted beside it on the floor.From a small locker at his hand he took Hamersly's "Social Register" and tore out a fly-leaf. A stub of lead-pencil appeared from one of his pockets. Using the book as a desk, the boatman began to write.He paused occasionally in this occupation, squinting his eyes and frowning as if puzzled over a thought or a phrase. When he had come nearly to the end of his sheet of paper he stopped writing, read his composition carefully by the dim light, and nodded an approval.Now he climbed back to the float again and crossed to where the second launch lay. It was a trim, well-kept little craft, a fact that he noted with an involuntary sigh when he thought of his own. There was a canvas cover that fitted neatly over the engine; this had been put in place carefully. He stepped into the cock-pit, lifted one side of the canvas and thrust his note underneath it."They can't miss that," he remarked, as he retreated to his own craft.Immediately following, he loosed his mooring, started his engine, and backed out into the river.It was late when the dingy launch rested once more in the rock-bound cove and the boatman walked up to his cabin. He was whistling gently and cheerfully, a lantern swinging in his hand. Entering the cabin and closing the door behind him, he drew the chair up to the table, fished the Social Register out of his pocket, and began another absorbed study of the C's."That's some family, believe me," he commented. "Strong on the Mayflower stuff, I notice. Been here ever since there was a New York. Pipe the old man's club-list! Not so big, maybe, but class—whew! And the missus—oh, yes; she's a Daughter, all right—three or four kinds of a Daughter. Fifth Avenue, Newport, Narragansett—uh-huh. That's the stuff!"Mentions the yacht, too. I wonder how many limousines. I suppose the master mechanic takes care of those."And—well, well, look who's here! Brother C. Alfred. Fell down a bit on brother's name, it strikes me. 'Alfred' doesn't quite class up. Ought to be either very flossy or very plain; that's the way most of 'em seem to run. But I notice Alfred is there with the Harvard thing. And all of papa's clubs, too."And here's grandfather, and great-grandfather, and the rest of 'em back of that. And mother—she's a Van Arsdale. That's nice; that's bully! She kicks in with some considerable ancient lineage herself."He grinned at the Chalmers page."Ah! And now the Lady Rosalind! They don't tell ages in this book, do they? Don't put the price-tags on, either. Rosalind—well, she just can't help it when you come to study the dope-sheet. On form, I'd back the Lady Rosalind to be a front runner in any company. Ow! Nothing like class—and nothing to it but class!"The boatman bethought himself of the telegram stowed away in his pocket. Now he examined it again. He sat back in his chair and laughed until that article of furniture creaked."Time to go to bed," he said, rising abruptly. "To-morrow may be a right busy day. Who knows?"He was crawling under his blankets when another thought came to him. Returning to the table, he tore from the Social Register the sacred page devoted to the house of Chalmers. It was closely printed, with marginal notes and annotations."I'm going to start a picture-gallery, just to brighten up the shack," he told himself.After a careful study of the four walls of his cabin, he selected a spot directly opposite the door, and there he securely fastened the printed page into place with pins. Beneath it he affixed the telegram, which had come to him from New York, addressed only to "Sam," and in care of the obscure little hotel where he had found it awaiting him. The telegram said:Five million. Unattached. Bidding brisk.There was no signature.The boatman stepped back, surveyed his work, and grinned. Then he darted to a corner shelf, devoted to a motley collection of odds and ends, and returned with a piece of chalk. Underneath the page from Hamersly's and its appended telegram he printed in bold letters:PORTRAIT OF A LADYCHAPTER VIIIWHO COPPED THE BUZZ-STUFF?Mr. Witherbee dashed out on the porch, mopping his brow, although the morning was yet cool. The company paused at breakfast."Again, by Judas!" he shouted, glaring at his wife.Mrs. Witherbee half rose from her chair and looked apprehensive."Again?" she echoed."Yes, again! Burglars!""Stephen!"Mrs. Witherbee sat down abruptly and began fanning herself with a napkin."That's what I said—burglars!"The master of the house rolled his eyes and breathed heavily."Is—is anything stolen?" asked Polly Dawson faintly."Stolen? Yes!" cried Mr. Witherbee so fiercely that his smallest guest shrank from him.The company sat silent, wide-eyed."They've stolen the burglar-alarm!""Stephen!""Don't Stephen me! I tell you they've stolen it!""Upon my soul!" said Mr. Morton, putting down his tea."But who—how—when?"The questions descended upon Mr. Witherbee in a volley."Who? How the blazes do I know? How? Why, just took it, of course. How does anybody steal anything? When? When nobody was looking, madam. That's my conclusion."Mr. Witherbee glared truculently at his spouse."But why didn't the thing go off?" asked Gertrude in a mystified voice."It did! It's gone!" shouted her father."All the wires, father? And the gong? Why, I noticed the gong myself as I came down-stairs.""I didn't say the wires and the gong!" stormed Mr. Witherbee. "You don't have to steal them to steal a burglar-alarm. I mean, they copped the works—the buzz-stuff—the juice!""Stephen!" protested his wife, still fanning herself, "that kind of speech doesn't—""What's speech got to do with this, madam? This is no time for speech; this is a time for talk! Do you understand that? Talk! I say they've stolen the works!""Dad means the batteries, mother," explained Tom Witherbee, rising. "Let's go and see."The breakfast party followed him into the house, Mr. Witherbee storming noisily at the rear."There! Look for yourselves, if you don't believe me!" he cried.Each member of the party, in turn, looked into the coat-closet under the front stairway. A small shelf in a corner had been built to hold six dry cells. It was bare of anything save dust now. Two wire connections projected uselessly from the wall.Mr. Witherbee's guests looked at each other in silence."Now, who the deuce would do a thing like that?" said Tom Witherbee tentatively, when the pause had become prolonged."Who, indeed?" murmured Rosalind.She was staring at the empty shelf as if it had a peculiar fascination for her."What I can't understand," said Mrs. Witherbee, "is why a burglar would want to steal the batteries out of a burglar-alarm.""Why, madam?" exploded her husband, whirling upon her. "Why? Anybody knows why! Why does a burglar poison a watch-dog? To keep it from barking. Why does a burglar chloroform a family? To keep 'em from waking up! Why does he steal the works out of an alarm? To keep the bell from ringing, madam. Lord Harry, it's plain enough!""That does sound rather reasonable," assented Rosalind, still fascinated by the empty shelf."They're getting ready for a raid, I tell you—a raid on the house!" declaimed Mr. Witherbee furiously. "They're just paving the way. And when they come—by George—there'll be nothing to wake us up!"Mrs. Witherbee shivered."But, Stephen," she said, wrinkling her forehead in puzzlement, "if they could get into the house to steal the batteries so as to make ready for a raid, why didn't they raid the house, instead of stealing the batteries?""That's a problem, too," commented Rosalind. "How do you account for it, Mr. Witherbee?""Account for it?" His flashing glance went from his wife to Rosalind, then back again. "Why should I account for it? I'm not a burglar. It takes a thief to know why! The point is, it's been done—that's all.""It's cursedly odd," said Mr. Morton, as he stroked his yellow mustache.Mr. Witherbee glared at his guest, opened his mouth to say something, then made a helpless gesture and remained silent."You just noticed this, dad?" asked Tom."When I went to get a hat.""Did you ask any of the servants about it?""No! What would a servant want with an electric battery? If you're going to ask me if I suspect my servants, I'll tell you no—right now, sir.""Father's right, Tom," said his mother. "The servants are perfectly trustworthy.""Of course they're trustworthy!" snapped Mr. Witherbee. "They're also deaf, dumb, and blind—non compos mentisand plain dotty. But they're honest. Anybody might walk in here and steal the plaster off the walls without getting caught. Yes, and for all your servants might know, steal you out of bed, madam!""Mercy, Stephen!" exclaimed his wife faintly. "Don't suggest such a thing!""We can get more batteries, father," said Gertrude soothingly."Batteries! Of course we can get batteries. And what's to prevent anybody from stealing the new ones?"I tell you, the whole neighborhood's overrun with thieves. First it's us, rung out of our sleep in the middle of the night; then it's Davidson; then it's us again. Now it's his turn. After that they'll probably steal the island."Rosalind, abandoning her study of the empty shelf, went back to the deserted breakfast-table and resumed her grapefruit."I had no idea," she murmured softly, "that they worked the burglar-alarm. I thought they worked the door-bell. But—I'm glad!"Rosalind was the only person who did not finish breakfast in desultory fashion. She ate deliberately and contentedly. There were no disturbing symptoms in her conscience. She was revenged—revenged for the shock of the midnight alarm, for the flight in the darkness, for the knee that bumped itself on the chair, for the night in the boat-house, for a gown that would never be worn again; yes, for everything save the bracelet. That was adorning the arm of Gertrude this morning.But she would be revenged for that, too, she told herself. And when Rosalind Chalmers promised herself anything, she was a patient and persistent performer."What in the world are you laughing at, Rosalind?" asked Mrs. Witherbee."Was I laughing? It was rather rude of me. But a burglar-alarm seems such a funny thing to steal. Think of stealing a noise!""To tell you the truth, my dear," said Mrs. Witherbee, after making sure that her husband was not within hearing, "I'm glad the old batteries are gone. They frightened me nearly to death night before last. Of course, I don't like to have thieves about; but if they must come, I'd much prefer they'd let me sleep."Tom and his sister, Polly Dawson and Mr. Morton were playing tennis; Fortescue Jones and the Perkins young man were smoking cigarettes, and the two Winter girls were knitting for the Belgians, when Mr. Witherbee hove in sight, leading a reluctant dog. There was a general suspension of industry."Where'd you get that, dad?" asked Tom."Been over to Davidson's in the launch," said Mr. Witherbee. "Here! Buck up—Rover, Prince, Fido—what the deuce did he say your name was, anyhow? Hold your head up; get that tail out. Some dog—eh?""What's he for?""Burglars."Rosalind checked a smile and stroked the ears of the cringing animal."Is he well recommended?" she asked."Well, I wouldn't exactly say that," answered Mr. Witherbee, as he regarded the beast frowningly. "Davidson says he isn't worth a hoot. But he thought maybe if he was kept on a strange place where he doesn't feel at home, he might get fierce again. So I don't want any of you to make friends with him. I'm going to put him on short rations until he gets a mean opinion of everybody.""He doesn't seem as if he ever had been fierce," observed Rosalind, as the dog thrust his muzzle into her palm."He's got a pedigree," declared Mr. Witherbee as he dragged the animal away from the friendly hand. "His father bit a man once, so Davidson says. And one of his brothers got killed in a fight. He's got the stuff in him, if there's any way to bring it out.""You mean to say, Stephen," remarked Mrs. Witherbee severely, "that you propose to train that animal to bite us?""Not us, madam; certainly not! I mean to train him to bite burglars.""Of course," said Tom Witherbee, as he walked back to the tennis-court, "he'll need a practise bite now and then. Wait and see if dad doesn't call for volunteers.""All right, young man!" snorted his father. "The amount of interest you show in protecting your mother, your sister, and myself is no credit to you. But let me tell you, sir, that other persons hereabouts are realizing the seriousness of this situation. We are organizing. Davidson has called a meeting at his island to-night. There will probably be a dozen owners there. We're going to do something about this thing, you can gamble on that. We'll probably establish a patrol. I expect some of the Canadian owners will come in on it, too.""The international navy at last!""Shut up, Tom! Here, you beast—come on!"Mr. Witherbee disappeared around the corner of the house, dragging the dog behind him.Rosalind, having succeeded in discouraging the attempts of Fortescue Jones to explain just why the fox trot represented more foot-tons of energy per mile than the one-step, managed to escape alone for a stroll about the island.She was not particularly interested either in her hosts or their guests. But she endured that patiently. What really annoyed her was the persistence with which her mind reverted to Sam, the boatman.The uproar over the batteries had merely served to rekindle the matter. She was by no means at peace when she thought of the uncouth navigator and his slatternly boat. He not only puzzled, but vaguely disturbed her.Of course, for his own safety, she felt well assured he would attempt to cause her no annoyance; and yet the foundation for possible embarrassments and unwelcome explanations was there. She was not a law-breaker, to be sure; but the boatman emphatically was. And in some measure it seemed that she had been an accomplice.The rack and thumb-screw could not have extorted confession from Rosalind concerning some of the things that had happened. But the difficulty lay in the fact that the boatman, if he chose, could render her own confession superfluous. And what might he not do, if caught, to save his own neck?She was particularly annoyed when she remembered the interview that had been of her own seeking. The result, so far as she was concerned, had been rather inglorious. He had even laughed at her! He had refused the bribe she offered; he would put no price on his silence.And he had called her pal! Her cheeks went hot when she remembered that.Down at the Witherbee wharf, Rosalind sat and idly watched a small power-boat that stood a mile off the island, evidently irresolute as to destination. It was not until it finally laid an unmistakable course for the Witherbee place that her interest was awakened.When the boat reached the landing, one of the two men who occupied it lifted his cap and inquired if it was Mr. Witherbee's Island. Being assured that it was, the men fastened their craft, stepped out, and went up the path toward the house, the direction of which Rosalind had indicated with a gesture.Half an hour or so later they returned, Mr. Witherbee with them. All three were talking volubly. One of the strangers held a paper in his hand.Rosalind, whose eyes were keen, deciphered two words that were written in a bold hand on one side of the sheet. Her pulse quickened, but that was the only manifestation of the excitement which the paper produced in her.After a moment of talk on the wharf, the two men embarked, thanked Mr. Witherbee, and went on their way."That's a funny go," said her host, turning to her.Rosalind raised her eyebrows in polite curiosity."American customs agents," explained Mr. Witherbee. "Looking for diamond-smugglers. It seems there's been a good deal of it going on. Last night somebody left an anonymous letter in their boat. That's what brought them down here.""Here?""They didn't show me the whole thing, but it contained some sort of a hint about Mr. Morton.""Mr. Morton?""Uh-huh! Ridiculous, of course; I told them so. I think I satisfied 'em on that score. They said, of course, they were compelled to look up every possible clue."They didn't think of accusing Morton of anything. Just wanted to know something about him; that was all. I introduced him. They didn't seem to take much stock in whatever the letter said.""Of course not," agreed Rosalind."But here's the queerest part. On the back of the paper was the name of Mr. Davidson. They went over to his island before they came here and showed it to him. And Davidson said that it was his own handwriting!""How curious! Of course he didn't know anything about the note?""Not a thing in the world. The note was written in lead-pencil in an entirely different hand. But there was his name on the back of it. It looks like a half-sheet of paper torn off from the other part. Davidson acknowledges the signature, and that's every blessed thing he knows about it. Now, wouldn't that get you?""It would," admitted Rosalind, forgetting her abhorrence of slang."I tell you I'm glad I got the dog," declared Mr. Witherbee as he went off muttering.Rosalind was content to be alone again for a little. She knew where she had seen the piece of paper before; she remembered very distinctly the boatman's copy of Hamersly's "Social Register."But smuggling! That was something brand-new to consider.What did he know about smuggling unless he smuggled himself? In Rosalind's mind he began to appear as something more than a common thief. A little seemed to have been added to his stature.What perplexed her most of all, however, was the reference to Morton, the Englishman.Why Morton? Why had the boatman furnished Morton's name to a pair of customs officers? Perhaps a crude ruse to divert suspicion from himself, thought Rosalind; yet that theory did not satisfy her.She was not quite sure that the boatman was crude in his methods, no matter how hopelessly ignorant he might be concerning gasoline engines. Now she remembered Morton's survey of the river, watching for Sam's boat; also, she recollected the questioning of Sam as to the Witherbees' guest.What did these two know about each other?Rosalind sensed a suddenly awakened interest in the Englishman, who had occupied a very minor place in her thoughts up to the present. She resolved to satisfy her curiosity, so, rising from her seat on the wharf, she went briskly up to the house.Mrs. Witherbee, also a Belgian knitter, was in a corner of the porch. Rosalind dropped into a seat beside her. For a few minutes she watched the tennis-players, then remarked indifferently:"Mr. Morton plays a rather strong game, don't you think?""Well, I don't understand tennis," said Mrs. Witherbee; "but they tell me he does. He's a rather interesting man.""Is he?""Don't you find him so, my dear?""I hadn't thought about it," answered Rosalind. "You've known him for some time?""No, we haven't," said Mrs. Witherbee. "He's been here most of the summer, but he's only been with us a few weeks. He was Mr. Davidson's guest at first. He's an old friend of Mr. Davidson, it seems. That's how we came to meet him."Stephen took a fancy to him and invited him over here. I imagine he was glad of the chance, because things were rather slow over at Davidson's without any young people, particularly after Billy Kellogg went away.""Billy Kellogg?""Mr. Davidson's nephew. A nice boy, but an idler. You probably heard his uncle mention the fact that he was working in New York. Mr. Davidson forced him to. The straw that broke the camel's back, it seems, was when Billy lost a big sum of money playing bridge with Mr. Morton. That disgusted his uncle.""But didn't Mr. Davidson feel any resentment against Mr. Morton for having won his nephew's money?" asked Rosalind."Apparently not," said Mrs. Witherbee, knitting busily. "You see, men are funny about those things. Mr. Davidson said if it hadn't been Morton it would have been somebody else, and that it was all a fair gamble. But he was furious at his nephew for losing."And now he gets reports from the banking-firm every day, telling him how finely the boy is getting on. And that's how, in a roundabout sort of way, we got Mr. Morton. Rather distinguished-looking, isn't he, dear?"Rosalind shrugged her shoulders and watched the tennis-player."Of course he's dreadfully English," added Mrs. Witherbee; "but he can't help that. And his name—it's Evelyn! Stephen thinks it's the funniest thing he ever heard—H. Evelyn Morton."But he likes him, just the same. Everybody does. You will, my dear. Why, Rosalind, you can't tell but he just might be the one who—""I think I'll go up-stairs and take a nap," said Rosalind hastily. "I have a slight headache."
She looked at the boatman. He was intent upon a course that would land them at the point where Rosalind had embarked upon her baffling voyage.
Davidson! This, then, was the explanation of the rummaged library! This—a Social Register—constituted the booty of a thief!
Again she ventured a glance at Sam. He did not appear to notice that she had picked up the book.
Her fingers marked the spot at which the volume lay open. Now she turned to the page. Rosalind gasped softly when she found herself among the C's—yes, and at that very page among the C's that listed the habitat, the personnel, and the lineage of the Chalmers family of New York!
The book dropped from her hands and thudded gently upon the flooring. A sensation of vague alarm succeeded her initial amazement.
What was the creature planning now?
As the boat touched the island she leaped ashore quickly, and started in the direction of the house.
"Wait, please!" called the boatman.
She halted.
"I guess you forgot something, didn't you?" he said.
"Forgot? Oh—you mean I am to pay you?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"How much?"
Her purse was in her hand.
"Only five this time."
She handed him the money without a word.
"Any other time you want a boat," he observed, "you can find me 'most anywhere."
"I suppose," she said frigidly, "that that is part of the price—of silence?"
"I didn't put it that way," he answered good-naturedly. "But I certainly do like to have a handy passenger on board."
She was moving away when he halted her again.
"By the way, Miss Chalmers, you might tell me something. Once in a while this old bunch of junk they call an engine seems to get all heated up over nothing at all, even when she's not running fast. Now, when she does that, ought I—"
"Hire a mechanic!" she said sharply.
"That's what I thought," he drawled. "I'll be looking you up real soon at that rate."
Rosalind was gone.
CHAPTER VII
NEW SLANTS
The boatman, after swinging well clear of Witherbee's Island, hesitated as to his course. "There might be an answer to-night," he muttered. "Still, it's pretty quick, seeing I only wired this morning. I guess I'll wait until to-morrow. I'll be sure to hear then."
Without further ado he headed the launch into the channel that runs between Wellesley and Hill islands, following a course so nearly midway between them that the wake of his craft would have served as a visible boundary-line between the United States and Canada. Several motor-boats passed him; one hailed sharply, warning him to show lights. He paid no attention, but steadily held his way.
Half an hour of running brought him opposite a small, dark spot on the water, around which he described a half-circle while he kept his eyes intently upon it. Then, apparently satisfied, he headed in toward what proved to be a rocky, wooded island.
There was a natural landing-place at the point he touched—a cove protected on three sides by bulwarks of the gneiss rock that rises stalwart, here as elsewhere, out of the great St. Lawrence.
Making fast his craft, he stepped ashore, and followed a narrow path that struggled over the stony surface, beset on either side by underbrush and small trees.
The path ended at a cabin. He pushed open a door, entered, searched about in the darkness for a moment, then struck a match and lighted the wick of a lantern that stood on a table in the center of the single room.
The cabin was clean, plain, and cheerless. There was a cot in one corner, a small iron stove, a shelf with a few cooking-utensils, and one chair.
"No place like home," he commented with a grin. "And I suppose I'll be kicked out of here if anybody gets wise."
He helped himself to a few crackers from a tin box on the shelf, sat down, and began munching them in an absent-minded manner. Presently his wandering glance fixed itself upon a broken mirror that hung from a nail driven into one of the walls. He picked up the lantern, advanced across the cabin, and held the light so that he could survey himself in the glass.
"You're a nice-looking object," he assured his reflection as one hand stroked his beard. "I've got a mind—"
A lidless cigar-box nailed against the wall contained a razor, a lather-brush, and half a cake of soap. He picked up the razor and once more studied himself in the mirror.
"No," he said, shaking his head slowly as he returned the razor to its place. "Don't get foolish. You can't be useful and beautiful at the same time."
He replaced the lantern on the table and went to the cot, where he stretched himself on the gray blankets and lay staring up at the roof-boards for many minutes. The boatman's thoughts were apparently amusing, for once he laughed aloud, while many times he chuckled.
"That was a close go last night," he remarked, addressing himself to a knot-hole, through which, by a little maneuvering of his head, he could focus a brilliant star. "Just a little closer and they'd have had me. It was the master mechanic who did the trick.
"Some mechanic, too! A pal worth having, that lady—a sort of lucky strike, it looks to me. She's not gentle exactly, with that tongue of hers; but she's all there when it comes to getting action. Had a gun in her pocket, too."
He laughed again.
"A gun—for poor Sam!" he added. "Guess I'll have to be careful. And yet—
"No, sir! I'm not going to lose sight of this proposition. It looks too good to me. And right on the same island, by Jiminy! Couldn't be planted better—for me. Why, she's just got to be a pal!"
Presently he closed his eyes and made an effort to sleep, a task which he abandoned with suddenness after five minutes.
"No use; I'm too curious," he muttered, rising. "I'm going up to Clayton. It might happen to have come in."
He blew out the light and walked from the cabin, making his way back to where the launch was moored. A moment later he was backing out of the cove. Then he headed northward, through the narrowing waterway that led him past Swiftwater Point, and then along the channel that sweeps the shore of Wellesley Island.
Abreast of the lights of Grand View, he swung almost due south and laid a course for Clayton, making the briefest possible detours to avoid the islands that lay in his path.
At Clayton he sought a small, obscure wharf, to which he made fast the launch. His excursion into town carried him upon none of the principal thoroughfares, but wound an irregular course through back streets, until he found himself at a small, poorly lighted frame building that served the double purpose of hotel and saloon.
He entered by a side door, took a seat at a table in a dingy corner of a back room and rapped smartly with his knuckles on the pine top. There was a shuffling of feet in the bar-room and a man appeared through a swinging-door, wiping his hands on a dirty apron as he came.
"Hello, Sam!" he said.
"Anything come?" asked the boatman abruptly.
For answer the man in the apron began a search of his pockets, finally producing a folded yellow envelope. The boatman reached for it quickly and ran his finger under the flap of the envelope.
"Ginger ale," he said briefly without looking up.
The bearer of the message went back to the bar-room to fill the order.
As Sam's eyes read the telegram they widened perceptibly. He smiled faintly, then nodded, carefully placed the telegram and its envelope in the pocket of his shirt, and looked up at the returning bearer of his drink.
"Everything O.K., I hope," observed the man in the apron, as he stood a glass and a bottle on the table.
"O.K.," confirmed Sam. "I might have to have another message sent here. Will it be all right?"
"Sure; as many as you like. It ain't costing me anything."
The boatman drank his ginger ale hastily, threw a quarter on the table, and went out.
Now, whistling softly and complacently, he strolled through a more pretentious part of the town, halting occasionally to examine store windows. He entered one place, made some trivial purchases, and offered in payment therefor a five-dollar bill that had until recently reposed in the purse of the master mechanic.
"Yep; a mighty useful pal," he murmured as he gathered up his change.
"How's that?" asked the storekeeper.
"I was just telling myself that money is a man's best friend," said the boatman as he strolled out.
The storekeeper watched the departing customer, then turned to the cash-drawer and made a second examination of the five-dollar note.
Sam made his way directly to the wharf where he had moored his launch, stepped aboard and made ready to cast off. Then he bethought himself of his engine.
"Needs oil, I guess. The master mechanic would give me the dickens if she knew how long I've run without filling the cups," he chuckled.
Forward under the half-deck he kept a gallon can. Now he got upon his hands and knees and crawled part way into the dark hole, groping ahead of him as he went.
There was nothing tidy or methodical in the arrangement of his ship's stores, so he spent a full minute, feeling about, before his hand came in contact with the oil-can. Then as he was backing from his cramped quarters a scraping sound attracted his attention. Another launch had touched the wharf. Something impelled the boatman to remain quietly where he lay in the bottom of his craft. Perhaps it was the guarded note in the voice of a man who was talking.
"I knew it wouldn't do any good to go out to-night," said the voice.
"Well, it helped us to get the lay of the place a bit at any rate," answered a second voice.
"But I don't believe the stuff is coming out through Gananoque at all. And I'm not satisfied that it's coming in here, either."
"Where do you think it's coming from?"
"Kingston."
"That wasn't the tip from Washington."
"I know that. But Kingston's a lot more likely. It's bigger, and that's some advantage when you don't want folks to notice you too much."
"And where do you think it's coming in?"
"Oh, blazes! How can we tell yet? There's a dozen places anywhere along here for twenty or thirty miles. And you can bet it doesn't come across in the same place twice."
The boatman breathed softly and lay clasping his oil-can. The men in the other launch were making their boat fast now.
"You're dead sure Washington's not just guessing about this?" observed the second speaker, a note of doubt in his voice. "Not that I mind sticking around a nice place like this for a while, but I'd like to show something for my time."
"They've got to do a certain amount of guessing, of course," said the other. "But it's not all guess. They're getting the thing fairly well located, and it's ciphering down to this part of the river. We know mighty well that Canada isn't beginning to use, not by half, the diamonds that have been shipped in from Antwerp. They're getting across the line to a certainty. There was a bunch of stuff got into New York last week, and the man who brought it had a railroad ticket that read from Clayton. We're still holding the stuff, but we can't prove anything yet."
"Maybe there's a half-way joint out here?"
"You mean on one of the islands? I've had that in mind. That's one reason I hired the boat. We'll do a little sightseeing to-morrow and get some new bearings."
The talkers were on the little wharf now. Sam pressed his body close against the flooring of the cock-pit.
"Well, I'm tired," said one. "Let's go on up to bed. It's all right to leave the boat here, is it?"
"That's what the man said. It's his dock."
Footsteps passed close to the boatman's craft.
"There's a boat come in since we were here," commented a voice. "He didn't mind hogging the best part of the dock either, did he?"
The second man laughed as the pair went on up the sloping gangway that led to the shore.
Sam lay motionless until they were gone from his hearing, then cautiously rose to his knees and made an observation. The men were out of sight.
He crawled aft, put down the oil-can and sat for several minutes, motionless, considering carefully the fruits of his eavesdropping.
"So they've got their eye on the islands, have they?" he thought. "Interesting, that. I wonder—"
He laughed softly.
"Why not?" he asked himself after another period of thought. "It may not be a bit of use to Uncle Sam, but it just might happen to make his humble namesake real happy."
He stepped out on the wharf and went up the gangway, at the head of which he stood listening and watching for a moment until he was assured that the arrivals in the second launch were safely out of the way. Then he returned to his craft, lighted the lantern, and squatted beside it on the floor.
From a small locker at his hand he took Hamersly's "Social Register" and tore out a fly-leaf. A stub of lead-pencil appeared from one of his pockets. Using the book as a desk, the boatman began to write.
He paused occasionally in this occupation, squinting his eyes and frowning as if puzzled over a thought or a phrase. When he had come nearly to the end of his sheet of paper he stopped writing, read his composition carefully by the dim light, and nodded an approval.
Now he climbed back to the float again and crossed to where the second launch lay. It was a trim, well-kept little craft, a fact that he noted with an involuntary sigh when he thought of his own. There was a canvas cover that fitted neatly over the engine; this had been put in place carefully. He stepped into the cock-pit, lifted one side of the canvas and thrust his note underneath it.
"They can't miss that," he remarked, as he retreated to his own craft.
Immediately following, he loosed his mooring, started his engine, and backed out into the river.
It was late when the dingy launch rested once more in the rock-bound cove and the boatman walked up to his cabin. He was whistling gently and cheerfully, a lantern swinging in his hand. Entering the cabin and closing the door behind him, he drew the chair up to the table, fished the Social Register out of his pocket, and began another absorbed study of the C's.
"That's some family, believe me," he commented. "Strong on the Mayflower stuff, I notice. Been here ever since there was a New York. Pipe the old man's club-list! Not so big, maybe, but class—whew! And the missus—oh, yes; she's a Daughter, all right—three or four kinds of a Daughter. Fifth Avenue, Newport, Narragansett—uh-huh. That's the stuff!
"Mentions the yacht, too. I wonder how many limousines. I suppose the master mechanic takes care of those.
"And—well, well, look who's here! Brother C. Alfred. Fell down a bit on brother's name, it strikes me. 'Alfred' doesn't quite class up. Ought to be either very flossy or very plain; that's the way most of 'em seem to run. But I notice Alfred is there with the Harvard thing. And all of papa's clubs, too.
"And here's grandfather, and great-grandfather, and the rest of 'em back of that. And mother—she's a Van Arsdale. That's nice; that's bully! She kicks in with some considerable ancient lineage herself."
He grinned at the Chalmers page.
"Ah! And now the Lady Rosalind! They don't tell ages in this book, do they? Don't put the price-tags on, either. Rosalind—well, she just can't help it when you come to study the dope-sheet. On form, I'd back the Lady Rosalind to be a front runner in any company. Ow! Nothing like class—and nothing to it but class!"
The boatman bethought himself of the telegram stowed away in his pocket. Now he examined it again. He sat back in his chair and laughed until that article of furniture creaked.
"Time to go to bed," he said, rising abruptly. "To-morrow may be a right busy day. Who knows?"
He was crawling under his blankets when another thought came to him. Returning to the table, he tore from the Social Register the sacred page devoted to the house of Chalmers. It was closely printed, with marginal notes and annotations.
"I'm going to start a picture-gallery, just to brighten up the shack," he told himself.
After a careful study of the four walls of his cabin, he selected a spot directly opposite the door, and there he securely fastened the printed page into place with pins. Beneath it he affixed the telegram, which had come to him from New York, addressed only to "Sam," and in care of the obscure little hotel where he had found it awaiting him. The telegram said:
Five million. Unattached. Bidding brisk.
There was no signature.
The boatman stepped back, surveyed his work, and grinned. Then he darted to a corner shelf, devoted to a motley collection of odds and ends, and returned with a piece of chalk. Underneath the page from Hamersly's and its appended telegram he printed in bold letters:
PORTRAIT OF A LADY
CHAPTER VIII
WHO COPPED THE BUZZ-STUFF?
Mr. Witherbee dashed out on the porch, mopping his brow, although the morning was yet cool. The company paused at breakfast.
"Again, by Judas!" he shouted, glaring at his wife.
Mrs. Witherbee half rose from her chair and looked apprehensive.
"Again?" she echoed.
"Yes, again! Burglars!"
"Stephen!"
Mrs. Witherbee sat down abruptly and began fanning herself with a napkin.
"That's what I said—burglars!"
The master of the house rolled his eyes and breathed heavily.
"Is—is anything stolen?" asked Polly Dawson faintly.
"Stolen? Yes!" cried Mr. Witherbee so fiercely that his smallest guest shrank from him.
The company sat silent, wide-eyed.
"They've stolen the burglar-alarm!"
"Stephen!"
"Don't Stephen me! I tell you they've stolen it!"
"Upon my soul!" said Mr. Morton, putting down his tea.
"But who—how—when?"
The questions descended upon Mr. Witherbee in a volley.
"Who? How the blazes do I know? How? Why, just took it, of course. How does anybody steal anything? When? When nobody was looking, madam. That's my conclusion."
Mr. Witherbee glared truculently at his spouse.
"But why didn't the thing go off?" asked Gertrude in a mystified voice.
"It did! It's gone!" shouted her father.
"All the wires, father? And the gong? Why, I noticed the gong myself as I came down-stairs."
"I didn't say the wires and the gong!" stormed Mr. Witherbee. "You don't have to steal them to steal a burglar-alarm. I mean, they copped the works—the buzz-stuff—the juice!"
"Stephen!" protested his wife, still fanning herself, "that kind of speech doesn't—"
"What's speech got to do with this, madam? This is no time for speech; this is a time for talk! Do you understand that? Talk! I say they've stolen the works!"
"Dad means the batteries, mother," explained Tom Witherbee, rising. "Let's go and see."
The breakfast party followed him into the house, Mr. Witherbee storming noisily at the rear.
"There! Look for yourselves, if you don't believe me!" he cried.
Each member of the party, in turn, looked into the coat-closet under the front stairway. A small shelf in a corner had been built to hold six dry cells. It was bare of anything save dust now. Two wire connections projected uselessly from the wall.
Mr. Witherbee's guests looked at each other in silence.
"Now, who the deuce would do a thing like that?" said Tom Witherbee tentatively, when the pause had become prolonged.
"Who, indeed?" murmured Rosalind.
She was staring at the empty shelf as if it had a peculiar fascination for her.
"What I can't understand," said Mrs. Witherbee, "is why a burglar would want to steal the batteries out of a burglar-alarm."
"Why, madam?" exploded her husband, whirling upon her. "Why? Anybody knows why! Why does a burglar poison a watch-dog? To keep it from barking. Why does a burglar chloroform a family? To keep 'em from waking up! Why does he steal the works out of an alarm? To keep the bell from ringing, madam. Lord Harry, it's plain enough!"
"That does sound rather reasonable," assented Rosalind, still fascinated by the empty shelf.
"They're getting ready for a raid, I tell you—a raid on the house!" declaimed Mr. Witherbee furiously. "They're just paving the way. And when they come—by George—there'll be nothing to wake us up!"
Mrs. Witherbee shivered.
"But, Stephen," she said, wrinkling her forehead in puzzlement, "if they could get into the house to steal the batteries so as to make ready for a raid, why didn't they raid the house, instead of stealing the batteries?"
"That's a problem, too," commented Rosalind. "How do you account for it, Mr. Witherbee?"
"Account for it?" His flashing glance went from his wife to Rosalind, then back again. "Why should I account for it? I'm not a burglar. It takes a thief to know why! The point is, it's been done—that's all."
"It's cursedly odd," said Mr. Morton, as he stroked his yellow mustache.
Mr. Witherbee glared at his guest, opened his mouth to say something, then made a helpless gesture and remained silent.
"You just noticed this, dad?" asked Tom.
"When I went to get a hat."
"Did you ask any of the servants about it?"
"No! What would a servant want with an electric battery? If you're going to ask me if I suspect my servants, I'll tell you no—right now, sir."
"Father's right, Tom," said his mother. "The servants are perfectly trustworthy."
"Of course they're trustworthy!" snapped Mr. Witherbee. "They're also deaf, dumb, and blind—non compos mentisand plain dotty. But they're honest. Anybody might walk in here and steal the plaster off the walls without getting caught. Yes, and for all your servants might know, steal you out of bed, madam!"
"Mercy, Stephen!" exclaimed his wife faintly. "Don't suggest such a thing!"
"We can get more batteries, father," said Gertrude soothingly.
"Batteries! Of course we can get batteries. And what's to prevent anybody from stealing the new ones?
"I tell you, the whole neighborhood's overrun with thieves. First it's us, rung out of our sleep in the middle of the night; then it's Davidson; then it's us again. Now it's his turn. After that they'll probably steal the island."
Rosalind, abandoning her study of the empty shelf, went back to the deserted breakfast-table and resumed her grapefruit.
"I had no idea," she murmured softly, "that they worked the burglar-alarm. I thought they worked the door-bell. But—I'm glad!"
Rosalind was the only person who did not finish breakfast in desultory fashion. She ate deliberately and contentedly. There were no disturbing symptoms in her conscience. She was revenged—revenged for the shock of the midnight alarm, for the flight in the darkness, for the knee that bumped itself on the chair, for the night in the boat-house, for a gown that would never be worn again; yes, for everything save the bracelet. That was adorning the arm of Gertrude this morning.
But she would be revenged for that, too, she told herself. And when Rosalind Chalmers promised herself anything, she was a patient and persistent performer.
"What in the world are you laughing at, Rosalind?" asked Mrs. Witherbee.
"Was I laughing? It was rather rude of me. But a burglar-alarm seems such a funny thing to steal. Think of stealing a noise!"
"To tell you the truth, my dear," said Mrs. Witherbee, after making sure that her husband was not within hearing, "I'm glad the old batteries are gone. They frightened me nearly to death night before last. Of course, I don't like to have thieves about; but if they must come, I'd much prefer they'd let me sleep."
Tom and his sister, Polly Dawson and Mr. Morton were playing tennis; Fortescue Jones and the Perkins young man were smoking cigarettes, and the two Winter girls were knitting for the Belgians, when Mr. Witherbee hove in sight, leading a reluctant dog. There was a general suspension of industry.
"Where'd you get that, dad?" asked Tom.
"Been over to Davidson's in the launch," said Mr. Witherbee. "Here! Buck up—Rover, Prince, Fido—what the deuce did he say your name was, anyhow? Hold your head up; get that tail out. Some dog—eh?"
"What's he for?"
"Burglars."
Rosalind checked a smile and stroked the ears of the cringing animal.
"Is he well recommended?" she asked.
"Well, I wouldn't exactly say that," answered Mr. Witherbee, as he regarded the beast frowningly. "Davidson says he isn't worth a hoot. But he thought maybe if he was kept on a strange place where he doesn't feel at home, he might get fierce again. So I don't want any of you to make friends with him. I'm going to put him on short rations until he gets a mean opinion of everybody."
"He doesn't seem as if he ever had been fierce," observed Rosalind, as the dog thrust his muzzle into her palm.
"He's got a pedigree," declared Mr. Witherbee as he dragged the animal away from the friendly hand. "His father bit a man once, so Davidson says. And one of his brothers got killed in a fight. He's got the stuff in him, if there's any way to bring it out."
"You mean to say, Stephen," remarked Mrs. Witherbee severely, "that you propose to train that animal to bite us?"
"Not us, madam; certainly not! I mean to train him to bite burglars."
"Of course," said Tom Witherbee, as he walked back to the tennis-court, "he'll need a practise bite now and then. Wait and see if dad doesn't call for volunteers."
"All right, young man!" snorted his father. "The amount of interest you show in protecting your mother, your sister, and myself is no credit to you. But let me tell you, sir, that other persons hereabouts are realizing the seriousness of this situation. We are organizing. Davidson has called a meeting at his island to-night. There will probably be a dozen owners there. We're going to do something about this thing, you can gamble on that. We'll probably establish a patrol. I expect some of the Canadian owners will come in on it, too."
"The international navy at last!"
"Shut up, Tom! Here, you beast—come on!"
Mr. Witherbee disappeared around the corner of the house, dragging the dog behind him.
Rosalind, having succeeded in discouraging the attempts of Fortescue Jones to explain just why the fox trot represented more foot-tons of energy per mile than the one-step, managed to escape alone for a stroll about the island.
She was not particularly interested either in her hosts or their guests. But she endured that patiently. What really annoyed her was the persistence with which her mind reverted to Sam, the boatman.
The uproar over the batteries had merely served to rekindle the matter. She was by no means at peace when she thought of the uncouth navigator and his slatternly boat. He not only puzzled, but vaguely disturbed her.
Of course, for his own safety, she felt well assured he would attempt to cause her no annoyance; and yet the foundation for possible embarrassments and unwelcome explanations was there. She was not a law-breaker, to be sure; but the boatman emphatically was. And in some measure it seemed that she had been an accomplice.
The rack and thumb-screw could not have extorted confession from Rosalind concerning some of the things that had happened. But the difficulty lay in the fact that the boatman, if he chose, could render her own confession superfluous. And what might he not do, if caught, to save his own neck?
She was particularly annoyed when she remembered the interview that had been of her own seeking. The result, so far as she was concerned, had been rather inglorious. He had even laughed at her! He had refused the bribe she offered; he would put no price on his silence.
And he had called her pal! Her cheeks went hot when she remembered that.
Down at the Witherbee wharf, Rosalind sat and idly watched a small power-boat that stood a mile off the island, evidently irresolute as to destination. It was not until it finally laid an unmistakable course for the Witherbee place that her interest was awakened.
When the boat reached the landing, one of the two men who occupied it lifted his cap and inquired if it was Mr. Witherbee's Island. Being assured that it was, the men fastened their craft, stepped out, and went up the path toward the house, the direction of which Rosalind had indicated with a gesture.
Half an hour or so later they returned, Mr. Witherbee with them. All three were talking volubly. One of the strangers held a paper in his hand.
Rosalind, whose eyes were keen, deciphered two words that were written in a bold hand on one side of the sheet. Her pulse quickened, but that was the only manifestation of the excitement which the paper produced in her.
After a moment of talk on the wharf, the two men embarked, thanked Mr. Witherbee, and went on their way.
"That's a funny go," said her host, turning to her.
Rosalind raised her eyebrows in polite curiosity.
"American customs agents," explained Mr. Witherbee. "Looking for diamond-smugglers. It seems there's been a good deal of it going on. Last night somebody left an anonymous letter in their boat. That's what brought them down here."
"Here?"
"They didn't show me the whole thing, but it contained some sort of a hint about Mr. Morton."
"Mr. Morton?"
"Uh-huh! Ridiculous, of course; I told them so. I think I satisfied 'em on that score. They said, of course, they were compelled to look up every possible clue.
"They didn't think of accusing Morton of anything. Just wanted to know something about him; that was all. I introduced him. They didn't seem to take much stock in whatever the letter said."
"Of course not," agreed Rosalind.
"But here's the queerest part. On the back of the paper was the name of Mr. Davidson. They went over to his island before they came here and showed it to him. And Davidson said that it was his own handwriting!"
"How curious! Of course he didn't know anything about the note?"
"Not a thing in the world. The note was written in lead-pencil in an entirely different hand. But there was his name on the back of it. It looks like a half-sheet of paper torn off from the other part. Davidson acknowledges the signature, and that's every blessed thing he knows about it. Now, wouldn't that get you?"
"It would," admitted Rosalind, forgetting her abhorrence of slang.
"I tell you I'm glad I got the dog," declared Mr. Witherbee as he went off muttering.
Rosalind was content to be alone again for a little. She knew where she had seen the piece of paper before; she remembered very distinctly the boatman's copy of Hamersly's "Social Register."
But smuggling! That was something brand-new to consider.
What did he know about smuggling unless he smuggled himself? In Rosalind's mind he began to appear as something more than a common thief. A little seemed to have been added to his stature.
What perplexed her most of all, however, was the reference to Morton, the Englishman.
Why Morton? Why had the boatman furnished Morton's name to a pair of customs officers? Perhaps a crude ruse to divert suspicion from himself, thought Rosalind; yet that theory did not satisfy her.
She was not quite sure that the boatman was crude in his methods, no matter how hopelessly ignorant he might be concerning gasoline engines. Now she remembered Morton's survey of the river, watching for Sam's boat; also, she recollected the questioning of Sam as to the Witherbees' guest.
What did these two know about each other?
Rosalind sensed a suddenly awakened interest in the Englishman, who had occupied a very minor place in her thoughts up to the present. She resolved to satisfy her curiosity, so, rising from her seat on the wharf, she went briskly up to the house.
Mrs. Witherbee, also a Belgian knitter, was in a corner of the porch. Rosalind dropped into a seat beside her. For a few minutes she watched the tennis-players, then remarked indifferently:
"Mr. Morton plays a rather strong game, don't you think?"
"Well, I don't understand tennis," said Mrs. Witherbee; "but they tell me he does. He's a rather interesting man."
"Is he?"
"Don't you find him so, my dear?"
"I hadn't thought about it," answered Rosalind. "You've known him for some time?"
"No, we haven't," said Mrs. Witherbee. "He's been here most of the summer, but he's only been with us a few weeks. He was Mr. Davidson's guest at first. He's an old friend of Mr. Davidson, it seems. That's how we came to meet him.
"Stephen took a fancy to him and invited him over here. I imagine he was glad of the chance, because things were rather slow over at Davidson's without any young people, particularly after Billy Kellogg went away."
"Billy Kellogg?"
"Mr. Davidson's nephew. A nice boy, but an idler. You probably heard his uncle mention the fact that he was working in New York. Mr. Davidson forced him to. The straw that broke the camel's back, it seems, was when Billy lost a big sum of money playing bridge with Mr. Morton. That disgusted his uncle."
"But didn't Mr. Davidson feel any resentment against Mr. Morton for having won his nephew's money?" asked Rosalind.
"Apparently not," said Mrs. Witherbee, knitting busily. "You see, men are funny about those things. Mr. Davidson said if it hadn't been Morton it would have been somebody else, and that it was all a fair gamble. But he was furious at his nephew for losing.
"And now he gets reports from the banking-firm every day, telling him how finely the boy is getting on. And that's how, in a roundabout sort of way, we got Mr. Morton. Rather distinguished-looking, isn't he, dear?"
Rosalind shrugged her shoulders and watched the tennis-player.
"Of course he's dreadfully English," added Mrs. Witherbee; "but he can't help that. And his name—it's Evelyn! Stephen thinks it's the funniest thing he ever heard—H. Evelyn Morton.
"But he likes him, just the same. Everybody does. You will, my dear. Why, Rosalind, you can't tell but he just might be the one who—"
"I think I'll go up-stairs and take a nap," said Rosalind hastily. "I have a slight headache."