Chapter II: Part 2

Miss Chalmers edged her skiff closer to the boat that had abruptly paused in flight. She had a suspicion. A moment later she knew. A half-suppressed exclamation reached her ears. The voice was one of recent memory.

For several seconds she was irresolute. Far be it from her to interfere with the long arm of justice or retribution, or whatever it might chance to be. It was no business of hers to trip Nemesis. And yet--

Well, perhaps she would not have acknowledged that it was sporting blood, but it was something singularly resembling it. She cared not a whit for the burglar; he deserved his fate. Contrariwise, she cared nothing whatever about the pursuers. They were entitled to no better than they could achieve. But she _did_ care about something else.

A stalled engine was a perpetual challenge to her.

To some persons the joy of battle lies in overcoming fellow men, to others in conquering the forces of nature, to still others in achieving hard-won triumphs over poverty or riches or other forms of adversity or perversity.

To Rosalind Chalmers, by some queer twist of her brain, it lay in starting a balky engine.

She hesitated no longer. What she did was without reason; but she was past that. Her fighting mood was uppermost. She laid to her oars and put herself alongside the motionless launch with such violence that the skiff rocked threateningly. Another instant and she was aboard.

The crouching figure of Sam, the boat person, arose from the cock-pit. Simultaneously a long arm whipped out with all his weight behind it. Miss Chalmers dodged.

"You fool!" she exclaimed wrathfully. "Here--hold the painter of this skiff."

The boatman whistled shrilly, then chuckled.

"Well, if it isn't the master mechanic!" he said.

Not far distant in the darkness, the second launch was plunging furiously onward, the man in the stern anathematizing his lookout.

"Thief!" hissed Miss Chalmers. "Strike a light here."

She was already bending over the silent engine.

"They'll see me if I do," said the boatman. "Best lie quiet for the present."

"A light!" she commanded.

He obeyed, holding the match low in the boat as he lighted the candle-stub and shielded the flame with his hand.

"You burglar!" she muttered contemptuously. "Where's your wrench?"

He reached under a seat and handed it to her.

"Hold that light closer--thief! Give me a hammer, too."

Fresh shouting reached their ears. The light in the cock-pit had been seen by their pursuers.

"Starboard! Starboard, sir!" beseeched an anxious voice.

"I see him. Shut up! You ought to have spotted him before. Stand ready now to make fast to him."

The boatman turned a glance in the direction of the voices and whistled again.

"I guess I'd better swim for it," he observed complacently.

"You quitter!" cried Miss Chalmers. "Get that light closer. There--hold it so! Oh, how helpless you are!"

The boatman's ears told him that pursuit was steadily drawing closer.

Miss Chalmers was doing something swiftly and mysteriously--just what, Sam had no idea. She gripped and twisted something with the wrench, then struck something else two smart blows with the hammer. A second later she seized the rim of the fly-wheel in both hands and gave it a vigorous turn. The engine buzzed noisily.

"There--you house-breaker!" she cried triumphantly.

The boatman took the tiller and blew out the candle.

"Much obliged," he remarked.

She dropped, panting, to a seat, and began to wonder what irresponsible act she would next commit.

There were cries of dismay from the stern boat when the quarry was off again, but there was no abandonment of the pursuit. In fact it was enlivened by a pair of bullets, which struck the water not far from the rejuvenated launch.

"Better get down on the floor," advised the boatman.

Miss Chalmers held her place.

Very calmly the boatman reached out, laid a hand upon her shoulder, and twisted her off the seat with a single motion, so that she landed with a bump on the floor.

"How--"

"Dared I?" he inquired. "Oh, I don't see any sense in running a chance of getting plugged. That fool back there just might hit something."

She was in a white rage from the touch of his hand and for the moment speechless. But she did not climb back on the seat.

Another shot sounded, but it went wide. The boatman took a knife from his pocket and cut the rope from which the skiff trailed in their wake. Miss Chalmers uttered a cry of despair at his action.

"We can't tow dead wood and expect to get away--not in this tub," explained the boatman.

"I--I don't want to get away!" she exclaimed.

"You don't?" There was genuine astonishment in his voice. "Then why in Sam Hill did you start that engine?"

She felt there was no fitting reply, so said nothing.

Soon there was a new sound from the rear, or rather a jumble of sounds--a shout of warning, a crash, a splintering of wood.

"There goes one of Mr. Witherbee's skiffs," commented the boatman. "They ran it down."

The lady who sat on the floor made no comment. She had no compunctions concerning the skiff, but she was suddenly alarmed over her own plight.

How would she get back now?

"He's gaining some," observed the boatman after a short interval. "I told you I wasn't a speed-king."

Miss Chalmers's mind once more detached itself from her predicament. She rose to her knees and stared out over the stern.

What the boatman said was true. The launch behind was now clearly visible.

"At this rate he'll get us in about five minutes," added the boatman after another inspection.

She made a dive for the engine and began tinkering with the spark. They _must_ escape! It would be too humiliating, too utterly beyond explanation to be caught now. She coaxed a few more revolutions out of the engine.

It did not trouble her that she was trying to cheat the law of its prey. She was wholly solicitous for the reputation and the dignity of Rosalind Chalmers.

"We're doing better than eight, now," she said defiantly.

"We haven't got the trunks," he explained. "But I'll bet she can't go nine."

Couldn't she? Miss Chalmers purposed to see. She mothered the engine again, touching it here and there deftly and tenderly, adjusting a screw, listening, adjusting again, doing a dozen things that the boatman would not have thought of doing. The engine responded gallantly.

"That's the first time I ever heard it purr," he said, in admiration. "You don't happen to be the inventor of that engine, do you?"

She ignored the question. She was too busy trying for that nine miles.

But still the stern boat gained--not so rapidly as before, yet consistently.

"I can't do any more," she said desperately. "You've got to do the rest. Do you understand? You've _got_ to!"

"Yes, ma'am," answered the boatman. "Will you take a chance in a mean channel?"

"Anything!" she cried.

"That's funny," he chuckled, "for a lady who doesn't want to get away. I was going to take the chance anyhow. Sometimes I make it and sometimes I miss it. I've been aground there six times. This is the first time I ever tackled it at night."

Miss Chalmers looked over her shoulder and saw that they were rapidly approaching land.

"You're running straight ashore!"

"Maybe--if I don't hit it."

By hitting "it" he meant a channel, into which they plunged a moment later. It was very narrow and very dark, and it served to make two islands where the casual observer thought there was only one.

"If we don't pile ourselves up this is going to be about as clever a thing as I ever did," remarked the steersman genially. "If we do hit anything you'll find a life-preserver under the starboard seat. In any event I'll lay you three to one they don't follow us."

She did not take the bet; she was too intent upon watching the rocks that rushed by almost within reach of her arm.

"I said it would be a pretty clever stunt," observed the boatman a moment later. "Here we are in open water again. No fear; they won't try it."

He swung the tiller sharply. The launch swerved and began to follow a new course.

"Is that Mr. Witherbee's Island?" demanded Miss Chalmers, pointing.

"That? No, indeed. We've been going away from Witherbee's."

"Take me there at once."

"You mean to say you really want to go back?"

"Take me there! Do you hear?"

"Why--yes, if you say so. Only, I took you there once and you wouldn't stay put. What brought you out, anyhow?"

"My own affair," answered Miss Chalmers shortly.

"Meaning I'm not to ask questions. All right. I'll take you back. You needn't worry about that--ma'am."

"Worry!" she flashed. "Do you think I'm worrying? Do you think I'm afraid--just because you are a burglar?"

"Well, to tell you the truth," answered the boatman slowly, "I've got an idea you're afraid I'm not a burglar."

"But you are!"

He shrugged his shoulders and devoted his attention to the course. It was a roundabout way to Witherbee's Island. The voyage was finished in silence. She did not know whether she was sorry or pleased when she set foot upon the lonely dock for a second time.

"No charge this time," observed the boatman. "It's on me."

She turned upon him fiercely.

"Let me warn you," she said, "that if you are caught--"

The boat was under way again.

"Well, good night--or rather good morning--Miss Accessory-after-the-fact," he called back.

*CHAPTER IV*

*QUESTIONS--AND A CLUE*

Dawn gently touched the eyes of Miss Chalmers and awakened her. She sat up briskly and surveyed the interior of the boat-house, at first with bewilderment, then with quick understanding.

"I remember," she nodded.

Then, glancing at her gown, she added:

"It's not likely I could forget. This is the day I arrive. I must hurry."

She reached for her grip, opened it, took out a ring full of keys, and arose from her canvas couch. A brief reconnaissance from the doorway of the boat-house assured her that Witherbee's Island was probably sleeping late, making up a lost hour.

She ran swiftly to the wharf, selected without hesitation one of her six trunks, unlocked it, and spent two minutes with its contents. Then she retreated to the boat-house.

Fifteen minutes later she reappeared with a bundle under her arm, returned to the trunk, stowed her burden away, shut down the lid and locked it again.

Miss Chalmers was a different lady. Her gown, her gloves, her hat, her shoes were all spotless. She carried a sunshade. Her hair was smoothly gathered in a low and luxuriant coil. If a Fifth Avenue shop had suddenly appeared in the background you would have wagered she had just stepped out of it.

"I think I'll take a little walk," she said.

She did not seek the path, but chose to follow the line of the shore in a direction opposite from that of the house. The morning air was virile. She breathed slowly, deeply, purposefully. She was a very healthy young woman.

"I have just arrived," she told herself. "I came down on a very early boat. I wonder if there _are_ any early boats--regular ones. If not, I hired one.

"And it's all perfectly true, too. I did get here this morning; it was past midnight. My trunks came ahead of me. How they came to be sent down last night I don't know; I'm not supposed to know.

"H-m! That's not quite so truthful. However, it will have to do. Of course, I know nothing about anything else--if they mention it. Particularly the pa-pajamas. I never saw them; I never heard anything; I never went anywhere.

"I don't think it's lying--exactly. If it is, so much the worse for the truth. It's necessary."

She followed the shore for several minutes and then, when the walking became difficult, retraced her steps. Out across the river she could see the island where the second burglar-hunt took place. Occasionally she scanned the water in other directions, half expecting to see her boatman engaged in futile fumbling at his engine. But there was no sign of him.

"To think--a thief!" she exclaimed. "I employed a thief! I might have known he was a thief when he charged me ten dollars! And twice I started the engine for him! I can't imagine why I did it--except the first time. I wouldn't be here now if I hadn't done that. It cost me a new gown, but-- Oh, well! What's a gown?

"Such a brazen thief, too--he accepted what I did as a matter of course! Bah! A dirty spark-plug! The thing is without excuse."

Miss Chalmers had reached the wharf again. Now she paused hastily and stood rigid, watching a figure that stood on the end of it. The man, who was tall and rather square in the shoulders, was dressed in white flannels. He was standing on the string-piece, his back toward her, his eyes searching the river through a pair of field-glasses. From right to left his vision ranged, while he stood with the military erectness of a bronze statue.

Once, as his head turned, she glimpsed the end of a tawny mustache. Then she knew him for one of the pajama trio. Involuntarily she looked at his ankles, and breathed a soft sigh of comfort when she saw that they were well covered.

Eventually, becoming tired of watching the watcher, she stepped quietly out upon the wharf, advancing to the nearest of her trunks and seating herself upon it. She was still studying the observer, wondering whether to speak first or to wait for him to turn, when there came a swift change in the tableau.

A bell rang loudly.

The tall man on the string-piece dropped his glasses into the river and whirled about. Then, remembering the glasses, he reached for them, a full second after they disappeared.

He reached too far for the purpose of equilibrium--not far enough to retrieve his loss. His body swayed outward. He clutched at the air; it slipped easily through his fingers. Then, folding up like a jack-knife, he disappeared from Miss Chalmers's vision.

The last thing she noted was a pair of surprised blue eyes, looking at her with unblinking steadiness. She was not at all astonished that the splash was a loud one, considering the manner in which he made his plunge.

The bell still rang blithely.

Miss Chalmers sprang down from her trunk and seized her grip, which lay almost at her feet. She had had enough of bells. Snatching it open, she turned back the alarm lever on a nickeled clock, then snapped the grip shut again. After that she resumed her seat and waited.

Over the string-piece a head appeared. Its owner observed her solemnly.

"I--er--I beg pardon, you know," said the head. "But--er--by Heaven! did you hear a bell, madam?"

Miss Chalmers shook her head.

"Odd as the deuce!"

His shoulders came into view and his arms gripped the string-piece.

"Odd as anything in the world," he added, as he continued to stare at her. "I could swear there was a bell, you know."

"I don't hear it," she said.

"Nor I, madam. It--er--seems to have stopped, you know. But there was one--oh, I'm sure! Unless, of course, you say there wasn't. I may have been mistaken. But--oh, it's frightfully odd!"

Miss Chalmers chewed her under lip until the pain made her wince. She had never before seen a long, yellow mustache drip water at both ends, and she was amazed at the quantity.

"If you've finished tubbing, why not come completely ashore?" she inquired presently.

"Why--er--thank you. I believe I will."

The rest of him appeared above the string-piece.

"Did you get your glasses?"

He stared at her for half a minute longer.

"I supposed, of course, you were going after them," she added gravely.

"So I was, by Jove! I quite forgot."

The tall man in the wet flannels turned around, stepped upon the string-piece again, poised himself, and then shot head downward into the water, cleaving it as cleanly as an arrow. Miss Chalmers was too surprised to move. She merely waited.

A quarter of a minute, then half a minute elapsed. Then, just as she was minded to run to the end of the wharf and look for him, a hand containing a pair of field-glasses appeared, followed immediately by its owner.

"Awfully good of you to remind me, don't you know."

Miss Chalmers was thinking swiftly.

"I don't know whether he is a fool or not," she told herself. "I'll be careful."

The tall man stroked his wet mustache and looked down at his flannels.

"Hope I didn't frighten you, I'm sure," he observed.

"Not in the least. You--interested me."

"Awfully kind of you to say that--awfully kind, Miss--er--er--"

"Chalmers."

"Ah--Miss Chalmers! We were expecting you--but not so early."

"I took an early boat."

"Why--er--the first boat down doesn't get here before ten, I believe," he said, staring again. "And it's not more than--"

"Not more than three minutes after six," interrupted Miss Chalmers. Then she flushed and frowned.

The man took out his watch and held it to his ear. He looked at the dial.

"Still going and-- By Jove, you're right, Miss Chalmers. What amazing guesses you Americans make!"

It was not a guess, however. Miss Chalmers's alarm clock, now ticking softly in her grip, had been set for six exactly. But she could not explain.

"We came so early," she said hastily, "that I decided to wait until somebody was up. I've been walking around the island, Mr.--Mr.--"

"I beg your pardon. Morton is the name."

He bowed deeply.

"As I was saying, Mr. Morton, I took a short walk after the boatman put me ashore, and--"

"Boatman, you said?"

"Why, yes; certainly."

"A chap with his own boat, was it?"

"It seemed to be his own boat," answered Miss Chalmers. "It's not very much to own, however."

Mr. Morton appeared to be interested.

"Now--if I'm not too inquisitive, you know--would he be a man with a beard?"

"He would; in fact, he was."

"Hum!"

Morton fell silent for a little, then turned to the river, raised his glasses, and made another survey. Miss Chalmers was becoming curious. Mr. Morton faced her.

"If you'll pardon me again, Miss Chalmers, would his name be Sam?" he inquired.

"He said it was. But why?"

Mr. Morton was silent again. Once more he scanned the St. Lawrence, now shining under the risen sun.

"Um--er--" said the dripping one as he abandoned his scrutiny. "Why? Did you ask why, Miss Chalmers? Why--er--really, no reason at all, you know. I've seen him--that's all. Just occasionally, you know. Really no reason at all, I assure you."

Miss Chalmers was assured there was a reason. She did not, however, pursue the inquiry. She told herself that it would be unseemly; what she meant was that it might be embarrassing.

Mr. Morton seated himself on the string-piece and allowed his glance to encompass her baggage.

"We saw your boxes last night," he remarked after a study.

"Indeed?"

Miss Chalmers spoke cautiously.

"Quite a surprise, you know, to Mr. Witherbee and all of us. We were looking for a rascal--a scoundrelly thief, by Jove--and all we found were your boxes. They're tremendously prompt with luggage in this country, aren't they? Why, they get it there ahead of you!"

"Sometimes," she admitted. "Did I understand you to say something about a burglar?"

"A burglar," he confirmed. "He rang the alarm, you know. Woke us all up. Rotten nuisance. Hunted all over the island. Found nothing--except your boxes. The bally bell woke the whole house."

He looked rather fixedly at Miss Chalmers.

"Awfully odd about that other bell, wasn't it?" he observed. "Quite startled me, you know. Made me drop my glasses. Must have been thinking of burglar-alarms."

"It was probably an echo of the alarm," she suggested.

"Really now, could it have been? Odd idea that. And you might be right, you know. You might be terrifically right, Miss Chalmers. They say your echoes travel tremendous distances in this country."

Miss Chalmers was vaguely uneasy. She felt that she was suspected as to the six-o'clock bell. She could not be sure, but he stared rather hard. Nor was she reassured when Mr. Morton coupled it in his memory with the ringing of the midnight chime in Witherbee House.

Perhaps it was natural enough to make the association; they were both bells, and both were abrupt and startling. But--well, she wondered if the man in the wet flannels was really a clever person.

"Are there many burglaries here?" she asked.

"I can't speak for the other islands, of course," he replied. "But this was the first for Mr. Witherbee. Fine chap, Mr. Witherbee. I'm just a guest, you know."

"Was anything stolen?"

Miss Chalmers asked the question perfunctorily.

"Upon my word, not a thing! Rather a joke, you know, too, because he left a clue."

"A clue?"

She sat up straight on her trunk.

"Seems like a clue, at any rate. You see--"

There was a heavy crunching on the gravel path, and the voice of Mr. Witherbee called:

"Well, Rosalind Chalmers! And at this hour of the morning. You and your trunks seem to make a specialty of mysterious arrivals."

Mr. Witherbee greeted her effusively and surveyed her from head to foot.

"Same girl, same girl," he commented admiringly. "Style--class--eh, eh, Morton? Oh, I beg your pardon! Have you met Mr. Morton?"

Miss Chalmers indicated that an introduction was unnecessary.

"I was so early, I thought I'd better wait down here for a while," she explained.

"Nonsense! Why didn't you come up at once? Ring the bell--bang on the door--do anything. We don't mind. Do we, Morton? Why, man alive, what's happened to you?"

Mr. Witherbee was regarding the white flannels with wide eyes.

"Mr. Morton dropped his glasses overboard and went to recover them," said Miss Chalmers.

The man on the string-piece shot a swift glance at her, then nodded confirmation.

"Huh!" said Mr. Witherbee, as he marveled at the wetness of his guest. "Just for a pair of glasses, eh? You're a queer cuss, Morton. By the way, Rosalind, did he tell you about the burglar?"

"He's just finished telling me."

"Fine note! Tell you all about it by and by. This is your grip, is it? You must come straight up to the house. Mrs. Witherbee'll be delighted."

He lifted the grip, grasped Miss Chalmers cordially by the arm, and started up the wharf. Then he stopped suddenly. A perplexed expression came into his face. Suddenly he cocked his head on one side and listened.

"Hear anything?" he asked Miss Chalmers.

She shook her head.

"I do," he affirmed. "Something clicking."

He listened again, then raised the grip and applied his ear to it. Miss Chalmers flushed.

"Please let's hurry," she said, urging him on.

Mr. Witherbee laughed.

"Clock, eh? I couldn't make it out at all."

She did not venture a glance at the guest, who remained behind, even when Mr. Witherbee called back:

"Better change those clothes, old man. Early breakfast to-day."

Mr. Morton remained sitting on the string-piece, looking after them with expressionless eyes.

Mrs. Witherbee was a sunup riser, like her husband, and she greeted her new guest with open arms.

"Everybody will be down presently," she said. "My, how wonderfully fine you look! How do you manage it--at such an hour? I suppose I'm a fright. Well, no wonder--this morning. Did Stephen tell you--the burglar? Oh, it was a terrible scare! I'm so glad, my dear, you were not here. It would have upset you frightfully."

Miss Chalmers, standing on the porch, glanced across the lawn and saw an overturned chair.

"Things like that do upset one," she murmured.

"I should say they did!" exclaimed Mrs. Witherbee. "I'm afraid I'll never feel safe on this island again. I'll always be lying awake, waiting for that alarm to go off. Really, I'd feel safer with it taken out, Stephen."

"Nonsense," said Mr. Witherbee. "Why, it scared him away, didn't it?"

"And scared the rest of us almost to death. I can't see any economy in that, I must say. I suppose, though, we should be thankful we're alive. Shall I show you your room now, Rosalind, or will you wait until after breakfast?"

"I'll wait," said Miss Chalmers.

Mrs. Witherbee stepped into the hall and called:

"Gertrude!"

"Yes, mother," answered a voice from above.

"Rosalind is here."

"I'll be down in a jiffy."

"And, Gertrude!"

"Well, mother?"

"Bring down what we found after the burglar left, dear."

"All right."

Mrs. Witherbee returned to the porch to find Miss Chalmers staring at her apprehensively.

"We've got a clue," she bubbled. "It's the strangest thing in the world. I suppose if you simply have to have a burglar, the next best thing is to have a clue. Stephen thinks it may lead to a capture. Do you still think you'll send for detectives, Stephen?"

"We'll see; we'll see, my dear."

Miss Chalmers walked to the porch-rail and steadied herself.

A clue!

It seemed she had never heard a word that sounded so sinister. A clue to the burglar! She shivered a little.

"Rosalind, you're positively chilly!" exclaimed Mrs. Witherbee, slipping an arm around her. "Run, Stephen, and tell Mary to hurry the coffee. It's this morning air, my dear. You'll get used to it in no time."

There was a quick step in the hallway, and Gertrude Witherbee rushed out upon the porch. Miss Chalmers returned the embrace, rather perfunctorily. She was thinking of clues.

"Here it is, mother," and Gertrude tossed an object to Mrs. Witherbee.

"Our clue!" said the lady of the island, holding it up for inspection.

Miss Chalmers was looking at her own bracelet.

*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 could _not_! 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.