Part 12

"So it's up to you to get those two badges and get 'em quick," he declared bruskly. "I don't care how; only I suggested a way. If you can think of a better one, go to it."

Rosalind compressed her lips and started toward the hotel.

"Any time you get cold feet," he advised, "just remember the bracelet."

It was superfluous advice. There was no fear she would forget it. It constituted her whole sustaining motive.

Three dances went by, and the boatman still waited under the trees. The music had heralded a fourth when he sighted a tall, slim figure in white approaching with quick steps.

"Here they are," said Rosalind shortly.

She thrust two red-and-gold badges into his hand so roughly that the pins pricked him.

"It took you three dances," he grumbled as he sucked one of his fingers.

"Well, I got them!" she exclaimed fiercely. "Now let me see you do something."

For answer, he coolly pinned one of the badges against her snow-white gown and stepped back to study the result.

"Now we belong," he commented as he affixed the second badge to the lapel of his coat. "Of course, it makes us just like common folks, but we can't be particular, considering what we're after. Did your partners happen to notice that they'd been frisked?"

Rosalind forbore to answer; she was outraged and incensed.

"Remember, now!" he cautioned. "We're both on the committee. What we say goes. And if you try to run out on me, look out, ma'am."

Her figure stiffened perceptibly.

"Not afraid?" he asked.

"I'm rather inclined to believe that you are," said Rosalind coldly.

"Come on, then," said the boatman.

Together they walked into the lobby of the hotel. All of the dancers were elsewhere, but the clerks and the bell-boys were in their accustomed places. Across the lobby, their red badges proclaiming ostentatious sympathy with a war-stricken hemisphere, the boatman and Rosalind Chalmers made their way at a deliberate pace. There was a flush in her cheeks--not of guilt, but of shame. If any one should see!

"Loosen up a little," he cautioned in a whisper. "Act human. Remember you're just common folks now. Smile at me; you're not headed for a funeral. That's better; that's more natural."

They paused in front of the glass case. For a second time Rosalind's glance rested upon her bracelet. The sight filled her with new courage.

Sam turned and beckoned authoritatively toward a uniformed youth who lolled on a bench.

"Yes, sir," said the boy as he advanced and saluted.

"Get some of the other boys or some porters. We want this case moved," he said briskly.

The boy eyed him doubtfully.

"It's to be taken into the ballroom, isn't it?" inquired the boatman, turning to Rosalind.

"Of course," she answered.

"It's getting no display here at all," said Sam, turning to the boy. "The committee wants it where the guests can see it. Hurry up, now. Get some boys."

"I'll speak to the manager," said the bell-hop.

"Mr. Saunders? No need; I've already spoken to him. And he said to make you boys jump. Incidentally, there's half a dollar apiece in it for you. Step lively!"

The boy was galvanized. He made a swift gesture to a uniformed group on the other side of the lobby, and was joined by four other boys.

"Now, boys," explained the boatman, "this case is to be moved into the ballroom. We want it to get a little advertising. You must be very careful with it."

The five boys nodded and ranged themselves about the table.

"You'll see why you must be careful if you look inside," continued Sam. "There's a lot of valuable stuff in there, boys--stuff that can be broken if it's handled roughly. Stuff that might be lost, too--and couldn't be replaced.

"See that pair of earrings? They'll sell for fifty dollars, easy. See those brass candlesticks? They're worth twenty-five. And if there wasn't anything else in the case, that bracelet is enough to make you careful. It's worth a hundred at the very least; perhaps five hundred. Now, do you understand?"

The five boys were staring in fascination at the magic bauble. The boatman made a swift scrutiny of their faces.

To Rosalind his harangue was without meaning. She tapped one foot restlessly upon the floor and looked about her.

"Well, if you're sure you're not going to drop it, grab hold," advised the boatman.

The captain boy and his four assistants laid hold of the case and raised it gingerly from the table.

"Which way, sir?"

"By way of the porch," said Sam. "Careful now! I'm responsible for this stuff, and I'd hate to have to replace some of it--especially that bracelet. That's it; steady! Take it easy."

The five boys moved slowly across the lobby to the main entrance, clinging grimly to the glazed box that contained so many wonderful trinkets. Their eyes, hitherto incurious concerning its contents, were now fascinated.

"Nothing like a little judicious barking," whispered the boatman to Rosalind as they followed in the rear of the procession.

The owner of the bracelet was mystified. Something, she knew, had not been confided to her. But there was no time to demand an explanation.

Out upon the porch the burden-bearers, breathing rapidly, turned in the direction indicated by Sam, and began a laborious journey between tables and chairs.

"Take it slowly," cautioned the boatman. "There's no hurry."

"If we don't hurry, we'll have to set it down!" gasped the captain. "It's heavy!"

"Tired, eh? Well, take a rest. No use running a chance of dropping it. Here--not that way! Tilt the end of it up on the rail. There! Now ease up on it. That's it. Take a breathing-spell."

The show-case lay balanced across the railing of the veranda, while five boys recovered breath. One of them steadied it with a hand, while four mopped their brows. Sam bent over the gaudy display beneath the glass, and seemed to be talking to himself.

"Good stuff, some of that. It ought to sell high. I wouldn't mind bidding on that brooch myself. But the bracelet--whew! That's going high, I'll bet. Why, I know a dealer--"

The boatman's foot slipped and he lurched heavily against the case. There was a warning cry from the boy who balanced it upon its precarious perch, echoed by a sharp exclamation from Rosalind as the case upended and slid gently over the railing. An instant later it landed with a jingling crash on the gravel path, six feet below.

Sam swore fervently at his own carelessness.

"Quick!" he commanded. "Get down here, you, and pick up the stuff!"

Five boys scrambled over the railing and leaped to the ground. Rosalind, almost in a frenzy of solicitude for her precarious property, started to run toward the nearest steps. She was pulled back.

"S-sh! Stay here!" commanded the boatman. "Watch!"

He leaned over the railing and looked down upon the wreckage, amid which his uniformed helpers were already on their knees, heedless of broken glass and intent only upon retrieving the treasures that had come such a melancholy cropper.

Bit by bit they rescued the miscellaneous donations to the cause of Belgian relief. Bit by bit they tossed aside the broken glass and piled in a loose heap the gaudy gifts that had been so tenderly guarded.

"Watch!" repeated Sam in a whisper.

Rosalind watched, but she was still bewildered. A moment later her lips parted and her eyes widened with alarm.

"Keep still!" cautioned her companion. "I saw it, too. It's the black-haired one, isn't it?"

She nodded.

"That's the way I made it. I spotted him back in the lobby," said the boatman in a low tone. "Leave him to me."

"But another one--that one"--she pointed--"has a ring, and I think--"

"Hush! What do you care? It's the one with the black hair for us."

A minute later the captain looked up at the watchers.

"We've got it all picked up, sir," he said. "What'll we do with it?"

"Carry it back to the lobby," said the boatman. "It was my fault; I'll explain how it happened. We'll see if we can get another case."

"Go get an omnibus tray," ordered the head bell-boy.

A uniformed youth with black hair detached himself from the group and hurried to obey. But he did not move in the direction of the dining-room. Instead, having ascended to the porch, he headed in an opposite direction and made off at a brisk pace.

"I'll attend to him," said the boatman hurriedly to Rosalind. "It's all right. Beat it, you! Take off that badge and make yourself scarce. That's what I'm going to do as soon as I interview our enterprising young friend. See you to-morrow, maybe. Don't worry--pal."

He was gone down the porch. Rosalind looked after him doubtfully. Then, with a swift movement, she tore the red badge from her dress, concealed it in her hand, and moved off in an opposite direction.

There was nothing more to be done save escape. The enterprise was on the knees of the gods. Only one thing was certain--Mr. Schmidt, of Chicago, would never desecrate the property of a princess.

In a dark angle of the porch a wriggling boy in uniform was pinned against the wall by a sinewy hand that grasped his shoulder none too gently.

"Fork it out!" hissed the boatman.

"I--I--"

"You little crook, I saw you! Come on! Kick in with it!"

"But I didn't mean--honest!"

"Produce! I don't care what you meant. I saw you pipe it, you young burglar! Ah--I thought so!"

The boatman held a heavy yet flexible object close to his eyes to make sure. Then he slipped it into his pocket.

"If I catch you around this hotel again it'll be you for the lockup!" he growled as he swung the youth away from the wall and held him at arm's length.

Then the bell-boy was booted off into the gloom.

The boatman waited until the sound of terrified footsteps faded away. He laughed, a second later, as he vaulted the railing to the sod beneath and vanished among the trees on the darkest part of the lawn.

*CHAPTER XVII*

*THICKENING MYSTERY*

The Witherbee yacht was nearing Clayton, with Rosalind as its only passenger. Principally, its errand was to meet William Kissam Kellogg, the nephew who had been summoned so peremptorily from his banking career in New York to take charge of the Davidson place.

Although the Witherbees were not acquainted with the young man, they had volunteered to take charge of his comfort and entertainment while his uncle was in the West. He was arriving on a mid-day train.

Rosalind was going shopping, she told Mrs. Witherbee. If she was also seeking temporary escape from a household where she found herself somewhat bored, her shopping errands were none the less _bona fide_. And if, further, she had a certain curiosity concerning Billy Kellogg, even a proper regard for the truth did not require her to say so, for she really had things to buy.

There had been less commotion over the exploit of the glass case than either she or the boatman expected. Thus far, it passed for a mishap. The fact that none of the bell-boys was able to point out the two badge-wearing conspirators, because of their disappearance, occasioned no unusual comment, for there were so many committee-members.

Nor did it appear that anybody possessed an inventory of what the glass case contained. As for the boy who did exactly what Sam expected him to do, there was nothing to be feared in that quarter. He was a frightened and chastened youth.

Rosalind had not yet recovered her bracelet, but, curiously perhaps, she found more comfort in the reflection that it was in the hands of a burglar than she would had it remained to be sold by the volunteer auctioneer from Chicago. To make sure that her conscience would not trouble her, she contributed a liberal cash donation to the Belgian fund.

Just when and how the boatman would deliver her property she had not been informed; but, although she was still undecided as to whether his major profession was that of spy, smuggler, or thief, or whether he skilfully combined all three vocations, she had a rather illogical yet firmly grounded belief that the time was not distant when her bracelet would again be clasped upon her arm.

Her shopping-tour in Clayton concerned itself mainly with the purchase of postage stamps. She maintained a furtive watch for Sam, but got no sight of him, nor did she see his boat at any of the wharfs. When she returned to the Witherbee yacht the new passenger was aboard.

He was sitting forward, under an awning, chewing an unlighted cigar and shifting his feet restlessly as he glanced about him. Rosalind was disappointed; he was not at all as she had imagined him. He was short and chunky, with a tendency to flesh lamentable in one so young. He did not look in the least devilish.

"He's as meek as the _White Knight_," thought Rosalind as she studied him. "The reformation must be very great."

He did not see her until she was close to him, and then it was to greet her with a startled leap from his chair and an embarrassed scrutiny.

"Mr. Kellogg, I believe?"

"Why--eh?"

"You are Mr. Kellogg, whom the Witherbees are expecting?"

"Certainly; of course. I beg your pardon."

Rosalind smiled. Evidently he was one of the difficult kind.

"I am Miss Chalmers," extending her cool fingers to him.

He shook hands nervously.

"You got Mr. Witherbee's telegram aboard the train?"

"Oh, yes; I got it. Very kind of him, too."

"They thought it would be rather lonely for you over at your own island, while Mr. Davidson is away, with none but the servants there."

"It would, it would," he assented quickly.

"So I am to bring you down to Mr. Witherbee's, where he hopes you will become his guest for as long a period as you find it agreeable. If it is necessary for you to be over at your own island at night, it is only a few minutes' run in the launch."

"I'm--I'm not sure it will be necessary at all," he broke in earnestly.

Rosalind was faintly puzzled. She could not understand Mr. Davidson's supreme confidence in this nephew as a protector of his island home. He did not seem in the smallest degree anxious for the task.

"You have heard about all the trouble, of course?"

"Er--what?"

"About the burglars and the smuggling and so forth?"

"Oh, yes--yes! But my uncle didn't give any details. He's--he's gone, I suppose?"

There was anxiety in his voice that did not escape her. Rosalind concluded that Billy Kellogg was very much afraid of his uncle.

"He's well on his way to Denver by this time," she assured him. "He has been speaking very well of you, Mr. Kellogg."

"Yes?"

"Indeed, yes! He has told us frequently about your success in New York."

"Has he? Good of him, I'm sure."

"He was reluctant to take you from your work," she continued, determined, if it were possible, to put this young man at his ease. "He felt that, perhaps, you would not want to come."

"I didn't!" he answered explosively.

Rosalind studied him in silence.

"You find banking--interesting?"

"Tremendously!"

"That's odd!" she said before she thought.

"How's that? What?"

"I beg your pardon," said Rosalind. "I didn't mean it exactly that way. Only--Well, you know, we've heard about you, Mr. Kellogg, and we rather pictured a young man who wouldn't be particularly absorbed by anything so serious and important as running a bank."

He blushed vividly.

"I hope I haven't been clumsy in alluding to anything unpleasant," she went on quickly. "I didn't intend--"

"Oh, not at all; it's all right, I assure you. I don't mind. Only--I've changed; that's all."

"Were you very wicked?"

She asked the question gravely; the mischief lay only in her eyes.

"Oh--I--hum! Why, I don't know that I was actually _wicked_."

He was squirming most unaccountably for a young man with a Billy Kellogg past, and Rosalind was speedily becoming more mystified. She felt that she was looking upon a miracle--and was not entirely sure that she approved of it.

Wickedness, or what passed for it in the average youth of her world, was infinitely more entertaining than the goodness of a young man who patterned his life after the hero of the _Rollo_ books.

"You were simply thoughtless, I presume," she remarked.

"Thoughtless? Indeed I was--very."

"Tell me about it."

Rosalind was not wholly averse to the practise of a woman's wiles. Here was a young man, she decided, who was vulnerable to the most ancient wile of all--flattery of feminine sympathy and curiosity.

Yet the curiosity on her own part was genuine enough. Billy Kellogg had been sent away because of an episode which included H. Evelyn Morton as one of its actors, and Rosalind was still unsatisfied in her quest for information about the Englishman.

"There isn't much to tell," he answered diffidently.

"You may light that cigar," she informed him.

He was still chewing upon it abstractedly. He availed himself of the permission, but without any advance toward ease of manner.

"They said that you gambled--rather heavily," she suggested.

"Oh--that!" he exclaimed.

"But did you?"

"I suppose so. There--there wasn't much else to do."

"I'm sure there wasn't," she said sympathetically. "It must have been quite dull so early in the season."

"That was it--dull," he assented. "You see--er--I wasn't working then, and I had to have something to fill in my time."

"And you lost--"

"Ten thousand dollars."

She arched her eyebrows slightly. It was a sum that did not impress Rosalind as stupendous, but the tone in which he mentioned it was one of awe.

"You are a more desperate person than I imagined," she said chidingly.

He looked at her, startled; then flushed again.

"You see, it was a year's income--a whole year!"

"Was it? I hadn't heard. How interesting!"

"I don't know whether you are familiar with the circumstances, Miss Chalmers," he went on slowly.

"Not a single one--but I'd like to know awfully. That is, if you don't mind. One is so apt to get false impressions when one does not understand."

"Why--er--yes," he sighed. "You see, I have an income--ten thousand dollars a year. The estate itself is in the hands of a guardian--my uncle."

"Mr. Davidson?"

"Yes; Uncle Henry. He manages things until I'm thirty. All I get--or did get--was the income."

Rosalind nodded.

"Well, I used to play cards a good bit. I was always losing, somehow. I was always drawing in advance on Uncle Henry. I suppose you can understand how that was."

"Oh, thoroughly!"

"Of course, he didn't fancy that much. He said I was getting into disastrous habits, and--I guess he was right. He wanted me to stop playing cards for money."

"Was it bridge?"

"That was it--bridge."

"It's rather fascinating," she commented.

"I thought so--once," he said gloomily. "Well, Uncle Henry had some friends up from the city, and we had a pretty heavy game one night. There was a Mr. Morton there."

"I know. Go ahead; it's becoming exciting."

"Well, Morton cleaned me; that's all. Cleaned me for a year's income. Of course, I hadn't saved anything before that; in fact, I was overdrawn. So that settled it."

He stared disconsolately at the river.

"And Mr. Davidson?" she suggested.

"Uncle Henry? Well, he hit the ceiling, if you know what that means."

"I have a notion. He was very angry?"

"He said he wouldn't stand for any more of it. He wouldn't advance me another cent until it was due. That meant a year, you see. I couldn't live on nothing for a year."

"I should say not!"

"So when I saw I had to go to work, he offered to get me a job. He--he wrote a letter to Hastings & Hatch, in New York, and they took me in. I've been there ever since."

"Wasn't it very hard--at first?"

"Why, it was luck--I mean, I liked it!"

"How fortunate!"

"Yes," he went on; "I got to like it right away. I really didn't want to come back at all, only Uncle Henry insisted. He telegraphed the firm. I tried to get out of it, but they made me come."

"I'm sure you've earned a rest," declared Rosalind, nodding positively. "Your uncle thinks you are doing so splendidly. I know that he will be very glad to see you."

"You don't mean to say--he's here!"

There was something very much like terror in his wide eyes.

"Oh, no; he's on his way West. What I meant was, he'll return before you go back to the city. You are to stay in charge until he gets here."

"I don't see how I can. Honestly, I don't see how. I've got to get back to work--soon."

"You are a very unaccountable person, Mr. Kellogg," commented Rosalind. "I never knew anybody who underwent such a change of heart in such a short time. Do you mean to tell me that it doesn't make you glad just to be here?"

He surveyed the river, the islands, and the passing craft. Then he shook his head.

"Perhaps I know the reason," she suggested.

He looked at her suspiciously.

"Perhaps it is that you are not anxious to meet Mr. Morton again."

"Is _he_ here?"

"He is one of the guests at our island."

Kellogg lifted his ungraceful bulk abruptly from his chair and walked to the rail, where he stood for a moment gazing down at the water.

"I beg your pardon," he said, turning. "I--I didn't intend to be rude. But it was a sort of surprise, you know."

"I didn't know there had been a quarrel."

"Oh, no; not a quarrel exactly. But--"

"You are afraid it may be embarrassing."

"That's it--embarrassing."

"But your uncle seems to have no feeling against him, Mr. Kellogg."

"I know; I understand. But that's different. He didn't lose a year's income."

"Of course, we could have the yacht leave you at your own place," went on Rosalind, "if you positively insist on avoiding Mr. Morton. But, as I said, there are only the servants there."

"I wouldn't go there for the world!" he exclaimed hastily. "That is--not now."

"Then, of course, you will stay with us."

"I might go to a hotel; yes, I think I'd better."

"But there is none within several miles of your island. How could you look after things so far away?"

"That's so; I'd forgotten."

His old uneasiness had returned. Rosalind was again in perplexity. She considered Billy Kellogg as not only unaccountable, but colorless.

She was rather glad he had lost a year's income, if this was his spiritless type. An hour before she had been anticipating a welcome accession to the Witherbee house-party--welcome because she felt quite sure that no young man could fail to be an improvement upon Mr. Morton, Reggy, Fortescue Jones, and the Perkins boy. Now she was rapidly reaching the conclusion that Billy Kellogg was even worse than any of them, and it was peculiarly a shock because it so wholly reversed her anticipations.

"You won't be paired off with Mr. Morton, at any rate," she told him consolingly. "There are lots of others. Polly Dawson, for instance; she knows you, I understand."

"Er--she is there?"

"Yes, indeed," and then Rosalind enumerated the other guests.

He shook his head as she named each person, and then returned to Polly Dawson.

"That's another surprise," he confessed.

"Not unpleasant, I hope?"

"Oh, no; not at all. I assure you I didn't mean that. Only--well, it's a surprise."

"Polly is really a very nice girl. And I've heard her speak of you so often."

"Er--have you? That's good of her, I'm sure."

After this he fell into a period of silence, from which all the arts of Rosalind Chalmers were unable to extricate him, save for fitful and brief intervals. Ordinarily, she would not have wasted her time upon such a dull and diffident young man; she would have taken his manner as an affront to her natural claims upon masculine attention.

But in this instance Rosalind's curiosity was piqued. She could not reconcile him with his reputation. If ever a devil-may-care spirit lurked in this beefy youth, something supernatural had exorcised it.

"Your island," she said, pointing.

"Looks all right," he commented, after a moment of staring.

"You don't seem particularly glad to see it."

He merely shrugged.

"Your uncle's yacht went to Kingston, I believe, to obtain some supplies."

"That's good."

"That's why Mr. Witherbee sent his own boat."

"Mighty kind of him, I'm sure."