Chapter V: Part 5

As he reached the rock from which they embarked he dropped to his knees, stretched his arms wide and looked up at Rosalind with eyes that conveyed to her an expression of doglike devotion. If there was a hint of something else in them, it was not Sam's fault. As an actor he was but an amateur.

Before the lady in the wet gown could divine his purpose he seized her hands in his own, bent his head over them and began kissing them. Rosalind uttered a cry of disgust. His beard tickled! Also she detested sentimentality.

"The poor fellow is trying to tell you how grateful he is," said Reginald.

Rosalind struggled to release her hands, but the boatman clung to them.

"Reggy! Make him let go!" she called sharply.

Reginald laid a rough hand on the boatman's shoulder and shook him. The man lifted his head and stared reproachfully. Then he dropped Rosalind's hands and sighed deeply.

She found as she drew back with a little shudder of annoyance that in the palm of one hand there was a folded bit of paper. Instinctively, her fingers closed over it; there was no need of explaining more things to Reginald.

Not until some time later, when the launch was far on the way to Witherbee's Island, did Rosalind find an opportunity to examine it. Then, her back turned to Reginald, she unfolded the crumpled sheet, and read:

"PAL ROSIE:

"You put one over on me that time--but just wait."

*CHAPTER XIII*

*RINGING IN*

Why the fat Mr. Schmidt from Chicago wanted to go to a dance was a problem that Sam made no serious effort to solve, for in a modern day when neither fat nor age nor bodily infirmity checks the universal human impulse it was of little avail to seek the motive in a given case. You simply go and dance--or think you do--and that's an end of it, with no questions asked.

The dancing-desires of the fat grain-broker from Chicago had taken him from the American mainland to Wellesley Island, a passage safely accomplished aboard the _Fifty-Fifty_. And when Schmidt had been set ashore at the wharf-entrance to a hotel-property that blazed with light Sam backed a little way into the river and made fast to a handy mooring.

Boats by the dozen, churning in from all directions passed close to the dingy launch. They were freighted with people, much dressed and wholly abandoned to laughter and chatter.

The boatman watched the procession with close attention. It had a cheering effect upon his loneliness.

"No sense to it--but why should there be?" he reflected. "If it's not dancing it's something else just as crazy. I don't blame 'em. I say, go to it; yes, even Schmidt."

"Doll up and walk like a duck while the band plays. It's easy and foolish, and if you do it wrong everybody tries to imitate the new step. Far be it from me to complain. On with the dance!"

Besides, Schmidt paid in cash and paid well--and Sam was not a boatman for his health.

A sharp, incisive voice, clear as a bell across the water, reached his quick ears. He turned in the direction of the sound. Out of the gloom came the shape of a large, white launch, passing close, and inbound for the festivities.

"Of course," said the voice in a tone of bored protest, "it will not be necessary to meet--persons in general."

"Not unless you wish to," the voice was answered by another. "We have our own crowd."

"That's something, of course. I hope we shall be able to keep together; I hate a mixture."

Sam smiled and wrinkled his nose.

"Same old master mechanic," he murmured. "Royalty going to watch the peasants frolic."

He watched the Witherbee yacht make the landing, and saw, by the glow of the colored lanterns that bespangled the wharf, a tall, slender figure in white that was not unfamiliar. An instant later it was lost in the crowd.

From the shore came the sounds of a band. The lips of the boatman pursed; he whistled softly. Presently his feet were tapping on the floor of the cock-pit. His shoulders swayed rhythmically to the beat of the music.

"And Reggy--she calls him Reggy--is there," he murmured as the tune faded away. "And the English gink, too. And the child with the fishing-rod. And they'll all be dancing with the master mechanic. Huh! Maybe even Schmidt will horn in, too."

By the feeble light of the lantern that stood on a seat he surveyed his costume and frowned.

"Who said clothes don't make the man?" he demanded aloud. "They make him dance at any rate. It's against the rules of the game to do it in rags."

Through the trees he had brilliantly lighted vistas of a broad hotel-porch, whereon a crowd surged ceaselessly in all directions with but one common impulse--to keep in step with the band. Again Sam's feet rattled on the flooring, and again his body rocked from side to side.

Then, abruptly, without waiting for the end of the music, he became rigid.

"Why not?" he demanded.

There was nobody to explain.

"Once more, why not? Now is the time for any grain of sense that may happen to be in my nut to speak up, or forever after do the oyster act. I wait--I still wait. I hear no answer. Therefore I have no sense. Therefore--why not?"

He went forward quickly, cast loose from the mooring-buoy, scrambled aft to the engine, cranked it with a nervous jerk at the fly-wheel, and headed out into the river.

For half an hour the launch ran down-stream, passing numerous craft that were obviously bound for the place of the whirling feet.

Sam maintained a close watch upon the procession. He was looking for a particular vessel, and eventually he believed he sighted it, for with a nod of satisfaction he altered his course and bore in toward the cluster of islands that included those of Mr. Witherbee, Mr. Davidson, and their neighbor vigilantes.

Now he extinguished his lantern--he never bothered with port and starboard lamps--and proceeded cautiously into the little archipelago that stood aloof from the other islands in its exclusiveness. Somewhere, probably in a dark shadow near a shore, lurked a patrol-boat.

It was nearly an hour later when the dimly marked hull of the boatman's launch, still devoid of any light, made its reappearance in midstream and laid a return course for the blaze of lights that beckoned hospitably to the islanders of the St. Lawrence. Opposite the hotel, Sam chose a new anchorage, farther from the shore and comfortably remote from that occupied by any other craft.

He relighted his lantern and chuckled as his glance fell upon a roughly wrapped bundle in the bottom of the boat. Seating himself beside it, he ripped off the paper and brought to view a series of articles that caused him fresh mirth.

First came a tiny mirror not much larger than a pocket-glass. This he propped beside the lantern. Then came a brush and comb, and after them a collar and a soft-bosomed, spotless white shirt. He handled the linen gently with grimy fingers.

Next he produced those three unmistakable garments so persistently demanded in the lower left-hand corner of certain cards of invitation--"evening dress." And then a pair of shining pumps.

For a minute he studied his bearded visage in the mirror, a scrutiny that ended in a grimace.

"If I took these chinchillas up to the hotel the bouncer would toss me out on my neck," he muttered. "But I guess I can trim 'em up some. What did I do with the scissors?"

Fumbling among the remnants of the paper wrapper, however, failed to produce the weapon he sought. An exclamation of dismay escaped him as he again inspected his beard.

"Some of it's simply got to come off," he told himself sternly. "We'll try a knife."

The knife was dull and rusty, while the beard was tough and tenacious. He groaned at the first stroke and barely suppressed a howl at the second. It was a two-handed proceeding, one set of fingers being employed in grasping a tuft of hair, while the other set, grimly gripping the knife, essayed the function of severing the tuft at a point half-way between the tip and the roots.

For several minutes he toiled in agony. Then nature weakly yielded to the pangs of pain and he tossed the knife overboard with an anathema.

"And still people go to beauty-doctors!" he growled, as he surveyed with disgust the meager results of his work.

"I'd singe it down a bit if I was sure it wasn't inflammable," he added. "But I'd hate to turn myself into a torch. Besides, I might lose it all, and that won't do--yet."

Then came to the boatman, as often to other persons, an idea. He turned to his tool-box and extracted therefrom an instrument which he regarded for an instant with doubtful eyes. Gritting his teeth, he faced the mirror once more.

You can bale out an ocean with a thimble if you have sufficient time and persistence. A task relatively similar is that of trimming a beard with a pair of wire-cutters. Sam set himself to it.

Compared with the operations of the discarded knife, it was happily free from serious pain. But it was mournfully slow. A wire-cutter is designed to sever one wire at a time, so its jaw, though powerful, is short. To the boatman it seemed an almost impossible feat to make the instrument cut more than one hair at a time.

He toiled doggedly, bending close to the little glass and twisting his head into such positions as promised the most favorable opportunity for attack. Patience was finally rewarded with a certain degree of expertness. The beard slowly diminished in length to an extent visible to the naked eye. Whether he was really achieving a Van Dyke he did not dare to guess, but he was at least bringing it to a point at the chin, and was cropping away some of its shagginess on the cheeks.

The mustache was a distinct problem. Twice he caught his upper lip between the jaws of the cutter and--swore.

"There!" he exclaimed at last. "If anybody objects to the effect let him say so at his own risk. Before I'll trim any more hair with a wire-cutter I'll let the blamed thing grow until--yes, even until Carrie Catt is President!"

Stripping himself of a gray flannel shirt, he next performed ablutions in a tin water-bucket, alternating soap with sand as he tried to reduce the grime that clung to his hands.

Again the wire-cutter came into play as he manicured his nails. Then there was a new period of torture when he drove the comb through locks that had not been raked for weeks.

To dress was the simplest part of all. He arrayed himself briskly in broadcloth and linen, even submitting patiently to the iron grip of the collar that encircled his neck. His quarters were so cramped that he sat most of the time in order to avail himself of the services of the mirror; but this was an inconvenience that gave him little concern. The worst was over, he reflected, until--

"For the love of Mike!"

That remark was in celebration of the discovery that he possessed every garment of a gentleman save a tie.

He viewed his image with a look of despair. His raiment fitted him astonishingly well, as nearly as he could judge. He had managed to button his collar into place without soiling it. The shirt-front was still immaculate. But no tie!

"You need a nurse," he told himself glumly. "What are you going to do now?"

Yet even at this catastrophe he would not acknowledge himself beaten.

"I suppose it's possible," he muttered, "to go ashore as I am and sandbag a waiter, or even a guest if I can catch one alone. But that has risks, and I don't feel like taking too many to-night. Any kind of a tie would do; I wouldn't be particular. Come! Get clever now and invent something. Remember the wire-cutters!"

Twice he made a search of the pockets of his clothes, faintly hoping that one of them might conceal the article he lacked, but his quest was unrewarded.

"Why does a man have to wear a necktie?" he raged. "And if he feels that he positively must wear one is he really a man? Talk about your slaves to fashion! You never see a necktie on a lady--and you never see a gentleman without one!

"Yes, I said 'gentleman.' Just a while back I was a man, now I'm a gentleman! Being one of those things, I have to have a necktie. I can't see that a man's clothes make anything out of him except a confounded coward."

Speech ceased suddenly as he spied a white object lying under a seat directly in front of him. He reached for it and held it up to the light.

It was a tiny and very thin square of linen, embroidered at the edges. As he brought it close to his eyes he became aware that it exhaled the faintest possible perfume.

"Bless the ladies!" he exclaimed. "One of 'em--I don't know which--has left me a handkerchief. We'll see what can be done."

With careful yet ruthless hands he tore the linen square into four strips of equal width. These he folded once lengthwise. Next he knotted them together, end upon end. The result was, at least in the semidarkness, something that resembled the necktie of a gentleman.

He grinned at himself triumphantly as he fashioned a bow out of the ends, after passing the strip of linen about his neck. There were frayed edges here and there, but they did not count against the general effect. It was a tie!

The boatman rose to his feet and glanced shoreward. Faintly there came across the water the quick, inspiring notes of a fox-trot.

"Time to hurry, I guess," he observed as he slipped forward and set the boat loose from her mooring.

As the _Fifty-Fifty_ edged her way gently to the float he stepped out briskly and made the painter fast to a ring. Not until he reached the head of the gangway did he give a thought to a possible difficulty. Then it was forced upon him suddenly.

"Your ticket, sir," said an attendant deferentially, holding out his hand.

"Ticket?"

"Admission is by card, sir."

"Oh--of course." The boatman smiled graciously and waved his hand toward the float. "One of the other gentlemen in my party has the cards. He will be up directly."

The attendant bowed and Sam passed onward. He did not stop to note that the man at the gangway, after a period of reasonable waiting, peered down at the float and discovered it to be quite empty of persons; nor that the same functionary immediately took a few futile steps in the direction whither the lone guest had gone and strained his eyes in an endeavor to locate the man without a card.

Sam had anticipated these things. He had mingled with the trees and was approaching the hotel, not by the broad path, but by a circuitous route across the lawns.

He paused as he neared the broad veranda and studied the throng. It was an interval between dances; some of the guests were descending the steps to the lawn, which was overhung with paper lanterns. He saw no familiar face.

"We'll wait till the band plays," he murmured, "and then we'll give it a try-out."

Furtively his fingers groped their way to the tie and found it bravely in place. He shook out his cuffs, smoothed his shirt-bosom, and examined his glistening pumps. Thoughtfully, even a little anxiously, he stroked his beard. Then--

The band again. The boatman strode forward jauntily and made his way to the crowded porch.

*CHAPTER XIV*

*WHAT THE PAUL JONES DID*

Rosalind had been sitting most of them out, instead of dancing them. There was not the least doubt the crowd was "mixed." Besides, after one experiment with Morton, one with the Jones boy, and a mere recollection of other dances with Reggie Williams, Rosalind found that sitting out was the nearest approach to having a good time.

Incidentally it furnished odd minutes for reflection, for it was possible to despatch her squires upon errands and thus obtain solitude. Her fertility of invention, when it came to errands, was quite astonishing; at the fact that all of the errands were useless, her conscience was pricked not at all.

She was a woman with a problem that challenged her. Back at the Witherbees' they gave her no time for cogitation; there seemed to be a universal obsession that somebody had to entertain her.

And Rosalind was a difficult person to entertain. She chose her own amusements and she resented having diversion thrust upon her.

It was not at all a matter of hardship--save to others--for Rosalind to be exceedingly untractable and unpleasant, both in manner and speech and the general loftiness and disdain of her bearing. If ever there lived a lady who needed, for the good of her soul and her conduct, to be clubbed briskly on the head by some conscientious caveman, dragged by the hair to his domicile, and set to pounding corn between two stones, that lady was Rosalind Chalmers.

And she was beginning to wonder if some such proceeding was not actually under way. The caveman, of course, was Sam. She knew he was not a real caveman, even, perhaps, of the kind that possess a veneer of civilization; yet he behaved like one.

His manner toward her was shocking and uncouth, as well as without explanation. He had contrived to involve her--she did not admit any of the contriving to be of her own--in a series of vulgar and embarrassing events; and she felt with a keen degree of uneasiness that he proposed to capitalize her misfortunes or misadventures in a manner as yet undisclosed and therefore peculiarly to be dreaded. Who he was, what he was, even why he was, Rosalind did not know.

Had she been free to ask questions and to conduct a systematic investigation perhaps something might be learned. But necessity, by which she really meant the veiled threats of the boatman himself, bade her be cautious.

In truth, Rosalind for once in her life was timid, although she would have perished rather than acknowledge it, even to herself. It was no physical fear, awakened by a dread of something that might happen to herself. Rather it was a more or less abstract apprehension, yet none the less poignant because of that fact.

It shaped itself into the idea that in some manner, and perhaps at some remote time, something would be done or said or even whispered that would bring into ridicule the Rosalind Chalmers who was known and recognized only by the fixed and inexorable standard of Hamersley's "Social Register." Not for all her wealth and her distinction would she be unmasked before her fellow denizens of the book!

The hotel-dance, therefore, while it forced her elbows to touch common clay, had a measure of consolation in giving her moments of solitude. She wanted to grapple with her problem. She did. It proved elusive and slippery and tireless. Worse, it grinned at her.

Yet Rosalind was game. Only once had fortitude failed her, and she blushed with hot shame when she thought of that unhappy time--the time during which she sat ten feet above the ground and yielded to the humiliating weakness of begging for release from a captivity that resulted directly from her own curiosity. That was an affair of bitter and vengeful memory; she had not even begun to pay off the smallest fraction of the score.

Tom Witherbee came to claim her. She had the bad grace to sigh as she rose. She hoped he would not step on her feet, but she was not optimistic; for the Jones boy, who would not have been picked by the casual observer as ah awkward person, had displayed the appalling accomplishment of stepping on both her feet at the same time, and doing it with no apparent physical effort or acceleration of breath.

They were hurrying swiftly across the floor, Rosalind trying to decide whether Tom Witherbee danced like a frog or a rabbit, when somebody blew a shrill whistle. With an abrupt apology she found herself released by her partner.

Then something horrible happened. She was a link in an endless chain of persons who had joined hands and were boisterously whirling in an undulating circle, like children playing "London Bridge."

Rosalind had heard of such things. In some places they called it the Paul Jones; in others it had equally undescriptive names. But by whatever term it was always the same; it meant changing partners every time a fiend blew a whistle--taking pot-luck with the crowd.

Another shrill toot sounded. The men began weaving in and out to the right, the women to the left. Rosalind was driven onward remorselessly by the necessity of saving her heels from being stepped on. She did not look like a lady who enjoyed being among the peasants and humble villagers. Her jaw was set at too grim an angle.

The whistle blew again at an instant when Rosalind's left hand was grasped firmly by one knight of the white shirt-front, while her right had just been seized by another. The signal, she knew, meant another partner. She wavered; it seemed like a chance to escape.

The captor of her left hand whirled about and stretched forth his arms. It was a fatal and short-sighted maneuver, for in doing so he released her fingers. Then with compelling force Rosalind found herself drawn into a firm grip by the person who still retained her right hand. She was dancing again.

It happened so swiftly that her half-formed intention to flee from the dance was never carried into execution. She was angry at herself, at Tom Witherbee, at the whole undignified affair.

And yet--this man could dance! She knew he was a stranger, although she had not even glanced above the second button on his shirt. Beyond doubt he was a vulgarian--one of the countless herd. But he could dance!

For the moment her irritation gave way to surprise. She had not expected this--after Morton and the Jones boy and Tom Witherbee. Here was a man who did not step on her feet, who did not employ her as a ram to batter his way through the swinging crowd, who did not crush her in a bearlike embrace, and who did not persistently fall out of time with the music.

He danced; he was neither a laggard nor a race-horse. He respected the functions of the band. To Rosalind it was like being rescued from a trampling mob and expertly piloted into a path of ease and safety and perpetual rhythm.

A common villager, perhaps; yet she yielded to the temptation. She also danced. And when Rosalind Chalmers really wanted to dance she was capable of attracting the eye and the envy of a Pavlowa. She was even conscious of a pang of regret that it would be so brief, for the fiend with the whistle would soon be playing his killjoy tune. But it was an oasis at least; one tiny, bright spot in a desert of clumsiness.

Rosalind half-closed her eyes and abandoned herself to the sway of the music. She was almost enjoying herself. He was not in her set, of course; yet there was a distinction about his dancing that seemed for the moment to lift him to that exalted plane.

She dreaded the whistle; it meant unknown terrors--perhaps even the Jones boy, who was circling near her with his arms full of a large lady in pink.

The ominous blast sounded.

"Please, if you don't mind--"

Rosalind marveled to find herself speaking, then checked her tongue and flushed.

A second later and she was marveling again, for her partner had understood. They were opposite one of the big French windows that led to the porch. As easily as if the maneuver had been rehearsed they swung through the opening and whirled away from the crowded room.

She glanced back and glimpsed another merry-go-round of couples, fated to be presently resolved into hopelessly mismated pairs. But Rosalind and the man who could truly dance went on and on, down the porch, still in the thrall of the rhythm that was so spirited and compelling.

"Thank you," she said.

He made no answer, save a quick pressure of her fingers. It was this silent acknowledgment of his gratitude that awakened Rosalind. Her fingers had, it is true, been pressed before, when she was taken unaware; but never by a stranger. She now remembered the pedestal she occupied in the world. She glanced upward.

For several seconds her vision remained fixed upon the most extraordinary necktie she had ever seen.

It was filmy and semitransparent. Also, it was ragged, frayed and rumpled. But--and this was its really amazing feature--it was marked with her own exquisitely embroidered monogram!

Her feet halted abruptly. She flung herself backward out of the arms of Sam, the boatman. He was smiling benignly.

"This--this--"

"Has been a great pleasure," he supplied, but the bow that accompanied the words was slightly satirical.

Rosalind stood gasping and angry.

"You dared!"

"Yes, ma'am."

"You deliberately planned--"

"Sure I planned it. A man's got to do some figuring in this world if he wants to get anything."

She stared at the outraged handkerchief that graced a neck about which at that moment she would willingly have passed a rope. This creature had danced with her. She had been in his arms! And she had been seen there!

"I had to break into that dance without a partner," he explained lightly. "It was the only way to get you; to horn in and take a chance. I knew there wasn't any use asking you for a dance."

Her eyes blazed. Her spirit was raging, yet her wits had not deserted her. Perhaps they had not been noticed after all. The room was crowded and most of the dancers were heavily engrossed with their own woes. Chance might have been kind; she would soon know.

Meantime it was an atrocious risk to stand there talking to him. Yet if she fled she knew not what the man might do. Probably he would follow.

"I wish to talk with you," she said with sudden resolution.

"That'll be another pleasure."

"But not here!"

"Well, there's, a lot of good talking-places down on the lawn," he suggested.

She nodded grimly.

"Come along," he said cheerfully. And the creature offered her his arm. She affected not to notice the insult.

"Better take my arm--ma'am. It's customary."

She walked beside him, but did not touch him.

"We'll look more like a regular couple if you do, ma'am."

Still she paid no heed to his advice. He halted at the top of the steps.

"If you don't take my arm," he announced, "I'll grab you and shoot you right back into that dance, ma'am."

Trembling with anger, she took it.

He led her down the veranda-steps and out among the lantern-lit trees. They walked slowly and in silence for a minute, until Rosalind felt she was safe from possible observers at the hotel.

Then she whipped her hand from his sleeve and drew a pace away from him. Carefully she measured him with a glance which rested longest upon the monogramed tie.

"Now I wish to know exactly what this means," she said sharply.

"It means just what happened," he answered, smiling.

She shook her head. She knew better than that, and she feared even more.

"Is this what you meant--in that note?"

"You mean where I said, 'Just wait'?"

"Yes."

"No, indeed; this is just a sort of extra, thrown in. When I said, 'Just wait' I meant it. Time's not up yet--just wait."

He grinned.

"Then I demand that you explain what it _does_ mean."

"Why, I told you what it meant, ma'am. It meant that I wanted to dance--with you."

"Never!"

"But you're unjust to yourself. Honest, that's exactly what I came for, and it's exactly what I've done. And if you'll only let me have one more dance"--a hesitation--"I'll do almost any thing in the world for you. Yes, I'll give you a free ride in my launch."

Rosalind shuddered.

"You came here for another purpose," she said.

"I see it's no use trying to make you believe," sighed Sam.

"You will be thrown out if the servants find you."

"That's a risk, of course. But it's worth it--for a dance, ma'am."

"You may even be arrested."

"That's possible, too--but I've had one dance anyway."

"I shall not permit you," she went on, ignoring him, "to do what you came here to do."

"Which is--"

"To rob people!"

The boatman stared at her, then broke into a laugh.

"You are here disguised--made up as a guest."

"Wrong, ma'am," he assured her. "I'm a man--made up as a gentleman."

"You came here to steal. You know it!"

"Raffles, eh? That's not a bad idea now. I hadn't thought of it; honest I hadn't. But now you propose it--"

"I didn't!"

"But you certainly did, ma'am. You've put the idea into my head when I hadn't the least notion of it. That makes you a sort of--"

"Stop!"

He shrugged resignedly.

"You're always snapping me up with that word," he complained. "You go and hand me an idea and then when I get ready to do something with it you tell me to stop."

"Will you tell me why you persist--in annoying me?"

"Do I? Why, I didn't think you were annoyed at all, back there while we were dancing. You even asked me not to turn you back into the scramble again, but to keep on as your partner."

"I never! You--"

"That's what you started to ask anyhow, ma'am. Because you remember you thanked me for doing it."

She flushed crimson.

"But I intended to do it anyway," he added complacently. "I wasn't going to lose a chance like that. They don't come often. I knew the minute I laid eyes on you that you could dance."

She hastily changed the subject.

"My handkerchief--where did you get it?" she demanded.

"Found it in my boat; lucky of me, too. I'd forgotten a tie. How does it look?"

Rosalind was beginning to sense the futility of the interview. She was rapidly losing control of it. Yet she was anxious to prevent the man from carrying out his very obvious purpose. Robberies among the guests might entail risks--for her. It was scarcely possible that nobody had seen her in the company of the boatman.

As she studied him, however, she admitted to herself that he might not have been recognized. He was very different in appearance now. But aside from the possibility that none save herself had paid attention to him was his evident and persistent purpose to link her misfortunes with his misdeeds. She had the sensation of a captive held for ransom, yet kept in ignorance of what the ransom might be.

"You _must_ go away," she told him firmly.

"Can't, ma'am. I've got a passenger to ferry."

"You must leave the grounds; go back to your boat."

"And I was just beginning to have a good time," he said ruefully, surveying his costume.

"I will pay you if you will go away."

"I haven't asked you to. I-- Here comes Reggy!"

Rosalind uttered a little cry and turned swiftly. The bulky figure of Reginald Williams was moving toward them.

"I'll hide," said the boatman cheerfully. "Try and save another dance, will you? Don't forget."

He slipped away from her and disappeared behind a thick clump of shrubbery. A moment later Reginald arrived.

"I've been looking all over for you, Rosalind," he exclaimed. "What are you doing out here?"

"I wanted some air."

"And you came alone?"

"Yes--alone."

"Tom Witherbee was looking all over for you at the end of that last dance," said Reggy petulantly. "You're not treating any of us decently to-night, Rosalind. First you won't dance, then you run away."

"I didn't wish to come in the first place."

"But you always used to dance. You used to dance with me, too. I know I'm not much good at it, but--oh, hang it, Rosalind! I'm having a rotten time. There isn't a girl in the whole crowd that'll dance with me. They all ask me to please sit down and talk to them, and they look at me as if there was something the matter with me."

"Perhaps you're not popular, Reggy," suggested Rosalind a little viciously.

"That worries me a lot so far as the rest of the crowd are concerned. But if I could only seem to be a little more popular with you--"

"Please don't start that again."

"I'm never going to stop it! Look here, Rosalind, it's not fair! Why, you won't even wear that bracelet, although you said you were crazy over it."

Rosalind bit her lip and remained silent.

"I haven't said anything about it before," continued Reggy grumblingly. "It seemed sort of kiddish to get sore. But you wore it once and I don't see why you can't wear it now. You don't have to be engaged to me to do that; it's not like wearing a ring. Why won't you wear it?"

"Why, I--"

Rosalind faltered in speech, then made a little gesture of annoyance.

"There's not another bracelet like it in the world," he went on. "It was just made for you."

"It was made for a mummy," corrected Rosalind.

"She wasn't a mummy--then. She was a live wire. I'll bet she wore it every day she took a walk around the pyramids. And don't forget--she was a princess, Rosalind."

"I haven't forgotten it; you won't let me. Besides, it was second hand."

That was a brutal thing for Rosalind Chalmers to say, but she was in a savage and exasperated mood. She was far more disturbed over the absence of the bracelet than Reggy himself, but she could neither betray nor explain that fact. She would have given a small slice of her ample fortune if it were only upon her arm at that moment.

"Second hand!" snorted Reggy. "Second hand because a princess wore it? That's the first time you ever pulled that stuff on me."

"Reggy!"

"Oh, well, those are my sentiments at any rate. Perhaps they're not very elegantly expressed. But honestly, Rosalind, I'm sore. I think you might wear it once in a while. Will you wear something else for me, if I get it for you? A ring?"

"Oh, don't begin again, Reggy."

"I'm just picking up where I left off. Rosalind, why won't you marry me?"

"Because I do not choose to."

"But you know I love you."

Rosalind nodded her head wearily.

"So why not?" he persisted.

"Reggy, you are positively dense," she said hopelessly. "Am I to marry a man just because he loves me? Suppose I do not love him."

"Well, you can come as near to loving me as you can anybody, I guess. I wouldn't expect you to love me a great deal. I don't think you're that kind."

"You mean, I suppose," she said coldly, "that I am incapable of affection."

"Oh, come; not like that, you know," broke in Reggy stumblingly. "But--well-- Oh, I can't put it the way it ought to be put, Rosalind. Of course you _could_ love anybody, if you wanted to. But what I mean is, that--you're not apt to."

"Thank you for making it so clear, Reggy."

"And I'd be willing to get along with just--just--"

"Just toleration, I imagine."

"Yes, toleration!" he blurted. "So long as it was from you."

"Well, I'm not in a tolerant mood at present," said Rosalind. "Will you take me back to the hotel?"

"Will you dance with me?"

"I think not."

"Will you wear the bracelet then?"

"Well--perhaps."

As they moved away the boatman stepped from his hiding-place.

"Bracelet," he muttered. "That's funny now. I wonder if it could be the one."

*CHAPTER XV*

*WHEN SAM CAME IN HANDY*

He waited until Rosalind and her gloomy suitor passed from view, then made for the hotel by another entrance. The door by which he obtained access to the building led into a broad lobby, where superior clerks yawned behind a counter that resembled a bar, and where there was a news-stand, also other details of hotel-equipment arranged with a view to reducing the amount of Federal reserve in individual depositaries.

Sam walked through the lobby at a casual pace. He was at ease with a cigarette between his lips. The make-up had been tested and had not yet buckled under the strain. None save Rosalind had paid the least attention to the tie, which argued powerfully for its propriety.

At the farther end of the lobby was a great glass case, supported upon a table. Within the case were many things. The boatman viewed them deliberately.

The variety was rather extraordinary. There were things made of leather, of linen, of silk, of worsted, of metal and of stone; things that were old, others that were middle-aged, still others that were palpably new; things that were ugly, arrayed beside things that were pretty; big things, little things, nondescript things. Some of them bore labels; others presented themselves to the eye without explanation or excuse.

He lingered at one end of the case for a full minute, but his vision did not penetrate the transparency of the glass. It was concerned wholly with the case itself--its joints, its locks, its sliding doors.

Then his glance roved about the lobby. He counted the number of persons that crossed it within a given interval and the directions in which they went, as well as those from which they came. He noted the varying degrees of occupation among the clerks, the news-stand girl, the flower-stand girl, the porters and the bell-boys. He studied the lights, the doorways, and the windows. He made a mental note of distances and directions.

After that he strolled lazily back to the porch, where he made a topographical inspection that involved the smoking of an entire cigarette.

"Now for the master mechanic," he said as he moved along the veranda in the direction of the dancing-room.

But the master mechanic was busy, quite beyond his reach. She was one of a group gathered about the portly figure of Mr. Davidson and she was listening to his words.

"It's been done again!" affirmed Mr. Davidson with gestures. "And the patrol is supposed to be on the job! Right under the noses of James and Eliza, too! And here I am, going away to-night! I'll not stand for it."

Rosalind signaled to Polly Dawson, and Polly invented a reason for leading Reggy Williams beyond ear-shot. For Reggy's heart must be subjected to no stresses other than those that might incidentally be imposed by the charms of Polly herself.

"Anything gone this time?" asked Tom Witherbee.

"Clothes!" exploded Mr. Davidson. "My room ransacked, Billy's room turned topsyturvy, bureau drawers dumped out on the floor and all that sort of thing."

"But when?"

"Since we came up here, of course! I had to send the boat back for my grips. I'm going away to-night and I forgot 'em. And then they saw what happened. A fine mess! I'd like to know what good it did to organize. He slipped right in under their noses and slipped out again."

"And no clue?"

"Clue--"

Mr. Davidson checked the word that was intended to follow immediately thereafter and glared at the Jones boy, who was the questioner.

"Clue!" he said, beginning afresh. "I've quit looking for clues. I'm looking for results. And I can get bunches of one and none of the other. And here I am, headed for Denver to-night, and nobody but a pack of fool servants to look after the place. I suppose the island'll be gone when I get back."

"It's appalling," said Marjorie Winter.

"You're right, ma'am," declared Mr. Davidson truculently. "It's worse than appalling. It's hell! Excuse me. But that's what it is."

"Couldn't you get detectives?"

"Detectives my eye! I never knew one yet that could detect anything except an expense-account. No, sir! I've sent for Billy."

"His nephew, Billy Kellogg," explained Mrs. Witherbee in a whisper to Rosalind. "The one that was sent away."

"Hated to do it, too," said Mr. Davidson. "But something had to be done. Wired down to Hastings & Hatch a little while ago to ship him up here the first thing to-morrow. Somebody's got to sit on the lid while I'm gone.

"He's learned some sense, I hear. Got a report only this morning. Sticking to his job like a nailer; that's why I hate to pull him off it. But I'll ship him back--the young rascal! I'll not spoil him again. Just as soon as I can get back from Denver, off he goes to the bank again."

"You think he'll be able to manage?" ventured Mrs. Witherbee.

She had never met Billy Kellogg in the flesh, but had heard reports.

"He'll manage or I'll break his neck," said Mr. Davidson savagely. "And I guess I won't have to do that either. Why, ma'am, he's a changed person, so Hastings & Hatch tell me. On the job at eight-thirty every morning, half an hour for lunch, sticking to it till five and six o'clock every night. A regular horse for work, ma'am! Hang it if I don't think he's earned a vacation--the scoundrel!"

Rosalind strolled away from the group as Mr. Davidson prepared to make his departure for Clayton. She wondered if the boatman would have the hardihood to show himself again in his stolen raiment.

Slow but persistent footfalls behind her warned her that she was being followed. Finally she turned and beheld Mr. Morton.

"Strolling?" he asked in vacuous tones.

She answered with a nod that was not meant to encourage.

"I might go along?" he suggested.

"You might, I suppose."

Rosalind once more sought the cool softness of the grass underfoot, with the tall and evidently preoccupied Englishman at her elbow.

"Oh, I say, Miss Chalmers," he exclaimed abruptly after they had walked in silence for several minutes.

"Yes?"

"Would you--er--do you think you could--er--marry me?"

Rosalind eyed him with frank astonishment. A smile trembled on her lips, but she did not allow it to blossom.

"I--er--love you tremendously, you know, Miss Chalmers."

"Really?"

"Oh, as sure as you live. Do you think you could, you know?"

"I'm afraid I neither would nor could, Mr. Morton," she said placidly.

"Hum! Ha! By Jove, but that's beastly hard luck, Miss Chalmers!"

Rosalind hovered between offense and amusement. She did not know whether the eighteenth or the nineteenth offer was a compliment or otherwise. She compromised by admitting to herself that she was bored.

"Rotten luck," he repeated musingly, stroking his yellow mustache.

"You speak as if it were a game of chance."

"I--er-- Oh, I beg your pardon. No offense whatever intended--really. Only you see these things go awfully hard with a fellow, Miss Chalmers."

"After less than a week's acquaintance?"

"Ah, but you know I'm an impetuous chap. That's the worst of it."

Rosalind laughed in spite of her efforts to check the outburst. He did not appear to notice it, so wholly was he engrossed with his own misfortune--and his mustache.

"Then I suppose there's no hope?"

"Oh, none whatever!"

"Thanks awfully, you know. It's downright good of you to take it in such a sporting way."

"I'm--I'm trying to bear it," she said, choking.

With a deep bow Mr. Morton excused himself and stalked silently away. Rosalind looked after him, shaking with mirth.

"That makes the score two to-night," remarked a voice from behind her.

She turned quickly. The boatman had appeared as if by magic.

"Eavesdropper!" she said contemptuously.

"Couldn't help it the first time," he explained. "Had to hide from Reggy. Do you always turn him down that way?"

She ignored the question.

"As for the second case," added Sam, jerking his finger in the direction of the departing Englishman, "I'll admit I followed you. But it wasn't for the purpose of overhearing a man get his death-sentence. I wanted to see you about something."

"I don't propose to be annoyed by you any further."

"It's something important, ma'am."

As she started to walk toward the hotel he whispered a single word:

"_Bracelet!_"

Rosalind halted in her tracks.

"I thought that would stop you," he nodded.

"What do you know about a bracelet?" she demanded.

"I've seen one.

"Where?"

He looked mysterious and answered her with a question:

"Do you want me to show it to you?"

"You mean--_my_ bracelet?"

"A sort of hand-me-down bracelet," he grinned.

"A gold bracelet, carved--"

"One that they burglared a tomb for, perhaps, ma'am."

Rosalind was afire with excitement.

"Where did you see this thing? What do you mean? Have you--stolen it?'

"No, indeed. I haven't laid a finger on it, ma'am. But I wouldn't be surprised if I'd laid eyes on it--the one that Reggy was sore about."

Rosalind thought swiftly. Neither Gertrude nor Polly was wearing it that evening, she remembered.

Where was it? She had a numbing sense of misgiving.

"Show it to me," she commanded.

"Of course it's possible I've made a mistake, ma'am, but--"

"Where is it?"

"Perhaps it's in the hotel."

"Who is wearing it?"

"Nobody."

"Is it in your pocket?" suspiciously.

The boatman laughed.

"I told you I hadn't touched it," he said.

Rosalind was losing control of her little trifle of patience.

"Take me to it!" she said peremptorily.

He led the way toward the veranda. She followed as far as the steps, then halted. Sam divined the cause of her hesitation. He laughed once more good-naturedly.

"I see you don't want to take another chance with me in there," he remarked, pointing. "In a way I don't blame you. That's a mighty catchy little thing the band's playing. I've almost a mind to take a dance in payment. But we'll postpone that, ma'am.

"Now, do you see that second doorway? No; the second to the right. It's the office entrance. Go through it and walk straight back until you reach the rear of the lobby. You'll see a glass case there. Take a look at some of the things in it."

She started swiftly up the steps.

"I'll be out here among the trees," he called after her. "I've got an idea you'll want to see me again."

Rosalind hurried along the porch and entered the second doorway to the right. Just beyond the threshold she paused and her glance swept the lobby. Yes, there was a glass case at the farther end. She stepped forward without further hesitation.

There, its aristocratic beauty undimmed by the cheap, gaudy gew-gaws that hedged it about, lay her bracelet!

She was too bewildered even to gasp, but stood rigid as a statue, staring. Her bracelet--lying in the mids of a tawdry collection of jewelry, silverware, and brass ornaments!

What did it mean. How did it get there?

As she stood in awful fascination, a bell-boy approached.

"The sale is to-morrow afternoon, ma'am," he said.

"The sale!"

Rosalind spoke so explosively that the boy was startled.

"Yes, ma'am; at three o'clock. There's the sign."

He pointed to a placard that rested on the top of the case. She read:

"These beautiful articles in this case, donated through a spirit of humanity by residents and summer visitors at the islands, will be sold at three o'clock to-morrow afternoon for the benefit of the war sufferers in Europe.

"If you cannot add your mite to the collection, you are cordially invited to attend the sale and become a purchaser, and incidentally a helper in a noble cause.

"Mr. Heinrich Schmidt of Chicago has kindly consented to act as auctioneer."

Rosalind clutched at something to steady herself and found that she was grasping the sleeve of the bell-boy.

"Ouch, ma'am!" he exclaimed as her fingers bit sharply into his arm. "Would you like a glass of water, ma'am?"

She released her victim and shook her head. The boy saluted and went back to his bench.

Horror of horrors! And the Witherbees had done this thing! Her bracelet--that dull circlet of gold that once girdled the arm of a princess of Egypt--that strange and beautiful bauble that had not its match in the whole world--was to be vulgarly hawked to a rabble by a grain-broker named Schmidt who came from Chicago!

The picture that flashed into her mind made her shudder with disgust. There would be a bargain-counter rush, a noisy clamor of voices shouting offers--putting a price on _her_ bracelet! And it would be held aloft in the fat, ruthless hand of Schmidt, dangled before the eyes of a mob, while he goaded them to bid higher and higher!

"Never!" she muttered through clenched teeth.

Valiant resolution! Yet in the same instant she realized her impotence to carry it into effect. The case was securely locked. Besides, there were other persons in the lobby. She felt sure at the very least that the bell-boy was watching her.

She could summon the Witherbees, of course--they who had done this awful thing--but that meant confessions and complications--and ridicule!

She might come to-morrow and buy her own bracelet, rub elbows with a scrambling and motley crowd, and match her lungs and her purse against the hardiest of them. But her very soul shrank from that; she knew that she could not do it. Better never see the bracelet again.

Yet Rosalind would not for an instant yield weakly to what seemed the inevitable and permanent loss of her dearly prized property. She was brimming with fight, even though she did not know how to fight, or whom.

"I'll get it!" she whispered grimly. "I'll get it if I have to burn down the hotel."

As she glanced helplessly about her, her eyes met those of Reggy Williams, approaching from the doorway that led to the ballroom.

Here was fresh dismay. Reggy could not--must not--look into that fateful showcase! He was coming to her swiftly, and Rosalind, pulling herself together sharply, advanced to meet him.

"What's the attraction?" he asked, looking over her shoulder.

"Oh, nothing. Let's go out on the porch."

"But what's the stuff in the glass case?" he persisted, trying to dodge past her.

She grasped him firmly by the arm.

"Please take me outside, Reggy," she said. "I want some air. Nothing there but some things they're going to sell for the Belgians. They're--not interesting."

It was Rosalind who took Reggy outside, rather than Reggy who assisted Rosalind. She did it with an expedition and a determination that puzzled him, particularly when, having walked him to the farther end of the porch, she turned him over to Polly Dawson with a severe injunction--whispered--to make him sit down and keep quiet for half an hour.

Then with a swift seizure of opportunity Rosalind escaped to the lawn and walked out among the trees, stern purpose in her heart and a whirl of desperate ideas in her brain. She was looking for Sam!

*CHAPTER XVI*

*ROUGH STUFF*

"You're quite sure it belongs to you?" asked Sam, his scrutiny of Rosalind's face pointed to the verge of annoyance.

"I have said so," she answered with finality.

A fifteen-minute conversation had preceded.

"It's not the kind of a job I'd pick of my own choosing," he remarked reflectively.

"I tell you, it _must_ be done!"

"Why not give me a handful of money and let me go in to-morrow and buy it?"

"No! It's mine!"

"Why not claim it, then?"

"I cannot. I--"

He waited patiently for the remainder of the sentence.

"Oh, what is the use of explaining?" she exclaimed irritably. "The point is, it belongs to me. I must have it. I _will_ have it! Why should you haggle over the question as to the real owner--after what you have done?"

"Which is to say--"

"Come," said Rosalind. "You and I have no need to beat about the bush in this matter. You are perfectly well aware that I know what you are. I'm not blind, or even dense."

"No, ma'am," he said meekly enough.

"The point is, you know how to do it."

"I suppose that's a compliment."

"Judge it as you please. It may be a compliment or a reproach. I'm not talking about the ethics of the matter, I'm talking about results."

"Well, what is there in it for me?" he demanded bluntly.

"I'll pay you!"

"How much?"

"Why--almost anything you ask."

"You don't drive a very sharp bargain, ma'am," he commented.

"I am not accustomed to dealing with--"

"Thieves?"

Rosalind nodded.

"Well, it might be done," he admitted slowly. "But it has risks. And it can't be done alone."

"It will be necessary for you to have help?"

"Yes! that's certain. I'll need you, in fact."

Rosalind evinced no hesitation. She was thinking only of her bracelet, in the winning of which she was willing to burn all bridges.

"Very well; what do you want me to do?"

The boatman eyed her curiously.

"It depends," he answered, "on just what we figure to do. Of course, we could crack the case and make a run for it. But that's too simple to get away with. No chance.