Chapter III: Part 3

"You hit on a new name that time, ma'am."

"You dare to say," she exclaimed in an unsteady voice, "that I was in any way associated with--with--whatever you did at Mr. Davidson's?"

"Well, now, I haven't said so exactly. Only just try to look at it from the jury's angle."

Rosalind choked and sat down. Her fears--fears that she had been trying to smother all afternoon--were realized. This was blackmail!

The boatman continued to smoke, unruffled. There was silence for a full minute.

"I suppose we're all through talking," he observed finally.

"We are not!"

Rosalind's tongue was loosed again.

"What you have just hinted at is despicable, wicked--depraved! It's beyond belief. You are contemptible enough to take advantage of an entirely innocent situation to make trouble--for a woman! Of course, with you it's entirely a question of money. Therefore, how much?"

"How much for what?" he inquired mildly.

"For what! As if you didn't well know--

"Never mind; I'll put the thing plainly, if you wish. Through a series of unfortunate circumstances, I engaged you as a boatman last night. Through a second series of circumstances it became impossible for me to announce my arrival at Mr. Witherbee's in the usual manner. Through still another series I had the misfortune to become involved in an affair which you very well know was none of mine.

"You are a thief; I am not. It happens, however, that I cannot afford to have my name in any way, either directly or indirectly, connected with the escapades of a burglar. The probability is, if you continue to remain in this neighborhood you will be captured. If that event does occur, you undoubtedly have it in mind to drag me into the affair. Therefore, how much?"

"How much to leave you out of it?"

"Exactly!"

He considered the proposal for a little.

"How much'll you give?" he inquired cautiously.

Rosalind was nonplused. She was not versed in the payment of hush-money. She had no idea whatever concerning the usual rates of compensation.

"I haven't more than about fifty dollars with me," she said.

"Fifty, eh? Um! Well, now, suppose I say I don't want anything, ma'am?"

"You mean--"

"I mean if I took it, why, it would seem like cutting loose from a pal. And I don't--"

"You beast!"

"Another new one," he commented blandly.

"I have a mind--"

She paused midway in the sentence. She did not know what she had a mind to do, to tell the truth. Rosalind was completely dismayed. He meant to hold this thing over her; to terrorize her; perhaps--she turned cold at the thought--to attempt to employ her in some new lawless raid!

"Don't worry, ma'am," he said as if reading her thoughts. "I won't say a word to anybody. Lord! I wouldn't tell on you; I just _can't_, you see. That being the case, what's the use of my taking your money in that fashion and only creating bad feeling between us?"

The boldness of the fellow's assumption sickened her.

"Please allow me to pay," she said coldly.

He shook his head.

"We'll let it stand the way it is. I never squealed on a pal yet," he replied.

"I cannot remain under an obligation, no matter how unjust it may be," she declared in a firm voice. "I insist upon paying."

"There's no obligation, ma'am--not the least. The account's all square. I did the job; you made the getaway. It's a fifty-fifty proposition. I'm not doing you any favor."

Rosalind was in a white fury. Her fingers curled around the stock of the little automatic in her pocket, although she knew quite well she would not employ the weapon. This creature called her his--pal! Called her--a Chalmers--by a vulgar name from his underworld! And she was helpless!

"You may take me back," she commanded suddenly.

"Right!"

He started the engine, swung the boat in a wide circle, and laid a course for Witherbee's Island. They had covered half of the return journey before she spoke again. Then:

"I may as well warn you that they are preparing to make a thorough hunt for the thief, and that the residents are about to organize, and probably to employ detectives."

"Thank you, ma'am."

"You may act accordingly or not, as you choose."

"It's very kind of you," he said humbly. "I'm sure you show the right spirit, ma'am. That's the way it ought to be between--"

Rosalind turned upon him.

"Don't you ever dare to employ that word to me again!"

"Oh, all right," he sighed. "I just meant to be neighborly."

It was some minutes later when she observed:

"I might add that one of the gentlemen staying with Mr. Witherbee is already on the watch for you."

The boatman looked surprised.

"He uses a pair of glasses to keep track of you."

"What's his name?"

"Mr. Morton."

An exclamation from the steersman.

"Morton--the Englishman?"

"Evidently you know him."

"N-no; I don't exactly know him. But I know who you mean. Tall man, yellow mustache?"

Rosalind nodded.

"Hum!" said Sam reflectively. "How long has he been at Witherbee's?"

"I haven't the least idea."

"He's spoken of me, has he?"

"Yes."

"What did he say?"

"Why, nothing really; except that he asked some questions in order to identify you and said he had seen you. I told him you had brought me down."

"Did you tell him when I brought you?" inquired the boatman.

"Well, I said--or perhaps I let him infer--that you brought me down this morning."

Sam laughed quietly.

"That's an alibi that might do nicely for both of us," he commented. "Much obliged. Did he mention my name?"

"He knows that you are called Sam," said Rosalind shortly.

"I see. Quite a chap, isn't he, don't you know?"

The voice of the boatman was rather satirical.

"And I'll tell you something else," she continued. "Mr. Davidson is convinced there is some queer work going on here, and he mentioned a boat hailing him last night while he was out in his yacht."

"So you've found out it was Davidson's yacht, then?"

"I have."

Sam seemed to find cause for gentle mirth.

"I think I can now understand," she added, "why you refused to let him help us. Even a burglar may have a certain delicacy about accepting a favor from his intended victim."

"That might be true," he admitted.

They were approaching Witherbee's Island when Rosalind's glance fell upon a book that lay open on the floor of the cock-pit. Idly she picked it up and glanced at the cover. It was a copy of Hamersly's "Social Register."

For an instant she stared at the title with astonished eyes. Not that the volume was strange to her; far from that. Rosalind Chalmers was thoroughly acquainted with this most exclusive of all publications that list the names of the families who are really and truly entitled to enter the social holy of holies. What amazed her was the presence of the volume in such an uncouth environment. She turned to the fly-leaf. Thereon was written in a bold hand:

HENRY DAVIDSON

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 mentis_ and 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."

*CHAPTER IX*

*THE ASCENDING SCALE*

Rosalind did not have a headache, and she did not take a nap. Instead, when she had closed the door of her room she faced herself in the mirror.

"You are becoming a great liar," she said bluntly.

With the fidelity of a movie, the image in the mirror returned the compliment.

"On second thought," said Rosalind, "I withdraw that. You are not becoming a great liar--you _are_ a great liar."

The lips of the animated image assured her that the amendment was accepted.

"You have lied about little things, big things, foolish things, serious things--everything. I detest lying. It is cowardly, vulgar, and demoralizing. Worse than that, it's troublesome. But"--she sighed softly--"occasionally it is necessary."

She turned abruptly away from the image, went to a writing-desk, and spent several minutes with a pen and a sheet of paper. When she had reviewed her composition with care, she folded it into small compass, slipped it into a vanity-box, and snapped the lid smartly.

"That's just to make sure," she murmured. "I suppose there will be more later."

After that she sat passively by the window for fifteen minutes, appearing to watch the tennis-players, yet devoting her complete attention to her thoughts.

Smuggling, of course, was not so bad as burglary, she reflected. Lots of excellent people smuggled--not in a really vicious way, and not with the least hint of sinister intent; it was just a sort of sporting proposition. They did not smuggle for a living, or even for incidental profit; they were not professionals.

She knew a lot of perfectly amiable, well-bred, and charming smugglers, who smuggled a trifle now and then for the excitement of beating the game. There was herself, for instance.

But professional smuggling was different, she told herself severely. And when it was coupled with burglary, it assumed a serious aspect. She would not permit herself to be lenient in this. Yet she was intensely curious.

If Sam was a smuggler as well as a burglar, who was H. Evelyn Morton? What did Sam know about Morton, and what did the Englishman know about Sam?

Of course, it was natural for Sam to attempt to divert suspicion from himself. But why throw it upon Morton?

"If it wasn't for the smuggling part I think I could understand," mused Rosalind. "If Mr. Morton won all this money from Mr. Davidson's nephew, I suppose it has been a matter of some talk. Probably this boatman has learned of the fact, and is merely waiting for an opportunity to rob Mr. Morton. And Mr. Morton probably has his suspicions, and is keeping a watch upon Sam for his own protection. That's perfectly reasonable.

"But, then, why should Sam try to get Mr. Morton into trouble, and probably thereby spoil his own chance of robbing him? I can't understand that, unless he is incredibly stupid. And--he isn't stupid."

At the end of her fifteen-minute study Rosalind made a resolution and went down-stairs to see about executing it. She contrived, with no great expenditure of effort, to detach Mr. Morton from his tennis.

"Don't you think," said Rosalind, "that it would be great fun to go fishing?"

"Upon my word, I never gave it a thought," said Mr. Morton. "But I believe you're right, you know, Miss Chalmers."

"Then let's."

"From the wharf?"

"No! That's a stupid place."

"We'll try the point, then."

"No!"

Mr. Morton looked puzzled.

"We must get a boat," explained Rosalind.

"Oh!"

"A boat and a boatman who knows where there is good fishing to be found."

He considered the idea for a moment.

"I--er--believe Mr. Witherbee is using his own launch this afternoon," Mr. Morton observed. "But--well, you know, we might be able to get--"

He paused in doubt. During an instant's silence their eyes met steadily.

"Yes, I think we might," said Rosalind. "Will you see if he's anywhere in sight?"

With a bow, Morton strode in the direction of the shore.

"I am rather curious to see those two persons together," murmured Rosalind, as she watched him go upon his errand.

It was nearly an hour before he put in an appearance.

"Awfully sorry to have kept you waiting," he said. "But I had to take a boat and row about a bit to find him. It's all right, however; he's at the wharf."

"That's very lovely of you," declared Rosalind graciously. "We might bring some of the others, too, if you like. Suppose you hunt them up. I'll go down to the boat."

She found the boatman wiping the seats and otherwise engaged in the discouraging task of trying to make his craft tidy. He greeted her with a brief nod.

"Fishing?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Muskies?"

"Why--yes."

"Well, that's good sport," he commented.

"You can take us to the proper place, of course?"

"Who--me?"

The boatman shook his head.

"Then why in the world do you pretend to hire out---"

Sam interrupted her.

"You don't want to go fishing," he said.

Rosalind's cheeks assumed a pink tint.

"Not for muskies, anyhow," added Sam.

In his eyes was a hint of amusement that angered her.

"It is my intention to go fishing," she declared coldly. "It is not my intention to have my word questioned."

He shrugged indifferently.

"Oh, very well, Miss Chalmers! How many in the party? Space is limited, you know."

"Myself--Mr. Morton--perhaps half a dozen others."

"Miss Dawson?" he asked.

Rosalind looked at him in quick astonishment.

"Because I can't take Miss Dawson," he added.

"You mean to say--"

"What I really meant to say was 'won't' instead of 'can't.' I won't take Miss Dawson."

For an instant Rosalind was quite too surprised for speech, a condition easily apparent to Sam, who volunteered further:

"No use to ask questions, Miss Chalmers. I'll give no reasons."

"This is the most unheard-of thing yet!" she exclaimed. "You mean to say that you presume to select my own guests for me?"

"No, ma'am; not exactly. But in this case-- Here they come now. I guess it's all right; I don't see her."

Morton appeared on the wharf, followed by the Winter girls and Fortescue Jones.

"This will be all, I think," he said.

Rosalind did not meet the boatman's eye as the party embarked. She had a feeling that there would be an insulting gleam of satisfaction in it.

For fully half an hour after they left the wharf she was a silent member of the party, engrossed in wonderment over this new development. It seemed to possess no meaning whatever; at least, none that she could even speculate upon. He would not take Polly Dawson in his boat.

Sam sat stolidly in the stern, smoking and watching the river. Occasionally his glance wandered to Morton, yet incuriously. This passenger seemed to possess no more interest for him than the Winter girls or the young man who toiled unskilfully over a jointed rod. As for Morton, the existence of the steersman did not appear to be within his ken.

Suddenly Rosalind remembered. She had come to study, not to fish. She had contrived a meeting so that she might observe a result. It was an experiment in human alchemy; put her Englishman and her boatman together and she felt that a reaction was inevitable. So now she began to observe.

Disappointment did not improve her temper. There was no reaction--no smoke, no fire, no explosion. They did not speak, neither did they exchange furtive glances. They were maddeningly at ease. Rosalind was soon disgusted with her experiment. She was quite willing to abandon it.

But the Jones young man was fishing by this time. The two strikes and two misses had rewarded his efforts, and he was brought to a pitch of absorbed excitement. Rosalind felt she was doomed to a dull afternoon. It had now degenerated into a common fishing-party, even though there was but one fisherman, and it did not lie in her mouth to explain that it was never meant to be an angling affair at all.

She attempted to put her mind into a state of resignation, the most difficult mental feat she ever attempted, and one at which she usually met failure. Morton was dull when he talked at all. He was three per cent. conversation and ninety-seven per cent. silence. The Winter girls knitted as if it were a penance. There was momentary hope when Fortescue Jones broke the tip of his rod, but that took wings when he produced another.

Only the boatman truly enjoyed himself. Hatless, he reveled in the sun that bathed his head and bared neck. His pipe was drawing smoothly and steadily. But, most wonderful of all, his engine pulsated as rhythmically and surely as the power-plant of a six-thousand-dollar limousine. It was fairly uncanny in its perfection.

The launch ranged past the eastern tip of Grenadier Island, then across toward the Canadian shore, thence up-river, Fortescue Jones fishing desperately, and bringing nothing within fifty feet of a gaff.

"We're going too fast," complained the fisherman.

Sam turned a glance of inquiry at Rosalind. She shook her head. The launch held its pace.

Another half-hour passed with scarce a word spoken aboard. Rosalind was bored to desperation. Her experiment in alchemy was the flattest kind of failure. She turned upon young Jones with sudden and undeserved severity.

"I should think it would be exceedingly tiresome to catch nothing," she said.

"It is," he assented hastily.

"Then why do you fish?"

"Why--why, I thought it was a fishing-party!"

"Without fish?"

"I've had half a dozen strikes."

She sighed and flashed a savage look at the boatman. He grinned.

"Shall we turn back?" she asked Morton, who was stroking his mustache in a preoccupied manner.

For answer he pointed toward a power-boat almost astern and following at a rapid rate.

"Seems, by Jove, as if they wished to speak with us," he said. "A chap just waved."

Rosalind studied the oncoming craft. It carried a small British ensign at the stern. Four men were standing in the cock-pit, staring intently. As she watched one of them signaled.

"Stop the boat!" she commanded.

Sam obeyed, then turned for the first time to observe the pursuing vessel, now close aboard.

As the launch slackened to a slow drift the smart-looking power-boat with the British flag ranged alongside. A man who appeared to be in authority touched his cap formally.

"Who's the owner of this vessel?" he asked.

"Me," answered Sam without removing his pipe from his mouth.

"Name of vessel?" demanded the stranger briskly.

"_Fifty-Fifty_."

"What?"

"I said _Fifty-Fifty_."

"Registered?"

The boatman shrugged his shoulders.

"Let's see your license."

"Oh, this is an American boat," said the owner indifferently.

"Well, you're in Canadian waters. I'm a Canadian officer. I am entitled to inspect your papers. Let's see them."

"Didn't bring 'em."

The man turned and held a whispered conversation with two of his colleagues. One of them nodded.

"We'll probably have to take you ashore for that," he remarked very sternly.

Sam displayed no evidence of interest. He merely looked at Rosalind. That lady had been suddenly aroused from boredom. She was very much interested.

"I am responsible for the boat being here," she said. "I am hiring it. What is the trouble?"

"The trouble is, madam, that this man is navigating Canadian waters without being able to produce proper papers."

"But that does not seem like a very serious offense," remarked Rosalind. "I imagine it is being done every day."

"It's been done a number of times by this vessel, madam. We've watched it."