Part 13

Rosalind sighed. By all odds, this was the most difficult young man of her experience. She was glad that the voyage would terminate speedily.

A knot of persons was standing on the Witherbee wharf, awaiting the arrival of the big power-launch.

"There are Mrs. Witherbee and Gertrude and some of the others," said Rosalind, her eyes busy. "I don't see Mr. Morton; I imagine you won't mind that, however. But--yes, Polly's there."

"I--I don't see her," declared Kellogg. "Where?"

"In blue, the third from the left."

"Oh, yes; now I see."

He studied the short, plump figure of Polly Dawson with absorbed interest as the boat neared the wharf. There was a hunted expression in his eyes; his fingers twitched.

Mrs. Witherbee welcomed the new guest effusively.

"We've heard so much about you, Mr. Kellogg, that it really seems as if we knew you. But you left before we came up for the season. We're going to try to make up for it."

"That's awfully good of you," stammered the prodigal.

"My daughter, Gertrude."

He shook hands and bowed.

"Miss Winter."

He repeated the same perfunctory ceremony, but his glance was wandering restlessly.

"Mr. Jones, Mr. Perkins, and my son, Tom."

Kellogg responded mechanically to the greetings. Rosalind, following the line of his glance, saw that it encompassed the figure of Polly Dawson. And in Polly's eyes, which were staring at the new guest, was an expression that completely baffled her.

"Oh, Polly, where are you?" called Mrs. Witherbee. "I believe you've met Mr. Kellogg, haven't you?"

Polly stepped forward and extended her hand. Rosalind watched the meeting narrowly. She sensed a situation that she did not understand--but she proposed to find out.

"Hello--Billy," said Polly in a queer voice.

"How do do--Polly?"

There was the same hesitation in Kellogg's tone.

"You're looking very well," she murmured.

"Feeling fine, thanks," he returned awkwardly.

Rosalind believed she was beginning to see a light. Here were the surface indications of heart-trouble, either on one side or the other, possibly on both. Yet on the many occasions that Polly had spoken of Kellogg, never once, either in word or manner, had she betrayed the existence of an affair of sentiment.

"Polly is deeper than she seems," Rosalind told herself.

It was Mrs. Witherbee who broke the tension.

"You must come straight up to the house and meet the others," she commanded. "We've all been expecting you, and we're delighted to have you. I told your uncle that we'd probably keep you here most of the time, unless it's absolutely necessary for you to stay at your own place."

"It isn't," he said quickly.

"I knew it wasn't," declared the hostess with emphasis. "I told Mr. Davidson the servants could do without you. So you may as well have a good time with us. Come along."

She linked an arm within that of the stammering guest and led him toward the house. Some of the others followed.

Polly lingered on the wharf, watching. So did Rosalind. When the procession had passed from ear-shot, the two women looked at each other.

"I had no idea, of course," said Rosalind, "that there had been--well, that anything had happened between you two."

Polly stared and was silent for half a minute.

"Nothing ever did happen between Billy and me," she answered slowly.

"But--"

"Where did you find him?" demanded Polly.

"At Clayton, of course. He came aboard while I was shopping. One of the men met him at the train and brought down his grips."

Polly's brow was furrowed deeply.

"I cannot understand it," she muttered. "It's--it's beyond belief."

"What?"

"His coming here."

Polly pointed at the retreating figures.

"Mr. Kellogg?"

"Kellogg? That's not Billy Kellogg!"

"Not Billy Kellogg?" echoed Rosalind. "Why, Polly!"

"That man is _not_ Billy Kellogg," repeated Polly, shaking her head.

"Then--then who is he?"

"I haven't the slightest idea."

*CHAPTER XVIII*

*WHO? WHAT? WHY? WHERE?*

"But, Polly, it's inconceivable!"

Rosalind was preyed upon by confused emotions. She was mystified, shocked, startled, apprehensive, even angry. Dominant was the sensation that this chunky, colorless young man had played a hoax upon her.

"It's true," affirmed Polly stubbornly. "I surely know Billy Kellogg when I see him."

"Of course! But what does it mean?"

Polly made a helpless gesture.

"He came aboard as Mr. Kellogg," said Rosalind, talking as if in self-justification. "He pretended to be Mr. Kellogg. He knew all about having been sent for by his uncle. Of course, he did act strangely. But he knew Mr. Morton; he even knew you!"

"You're sure?"

"Well," admitted Rosalind, on reflecting, "now that I think of it, in your case, I had to point you out on the wharf. But he said he recognized you. And you called him Billy!"

"I didn't want to make a scene," said Polly. "I knew there was something wrong, of course. So I just pretended--thought I'd wait till I got my bearings."

"But who can he be?"

"I tell you, Rosalind, I don't know, I never saw the man before."

"But he's pretending to be Mr. Kellogg--if he isn't!"

"Evidently. Oh, dear! It's beyond me."

"It has something to do with these burglaries," declared Rosalind.

"I suppose so. It's awful!"

"He's probably a thief."

"Very likely."

"Yet you've recognized him--or pretended to! Do you realize what you've done, Polly Dawson?"

"He called me Polly," she answered defensively.

"And just because a stranger calls you Polly, is he to be turned loose upon your friends?"

"_I_ didn't bring him here. I hope you're not blaming _me_, Rosalind!"

"No-o; of course I didn't mean that. But how was I to know he wasn't Billy Kellogg?"

"I don't suppose you could tell," admitted Polly. "Is--is he nice?"

"He is the stupidest and most hopeless creature I ever talked to!"

Polly sighed.

"You must go to him and demand an explanation," added Rosalind.

"I? Why, Rosalind, that's impossible! I don't even know the man!"

Rosalind regarded the plump, young person with severity.

"But _you_ have given him the very last word in introductions!" she exclaimed. "You pretended you knew him. Mrs. Witherbee and everybody else have taken him at face value. You passed him without even a challenge. Are you going to allow this stranger to live here and call you Polly? Why--why, it may make you _particeps criminis_!"

Polly's lower lip quivered.

"I--I couldn't think of anything else to do," she faltered. "Oh, Rosalind, you must help me!"

"It looks as if we must help each other," declared Rosalind. "We simply cannot allow this man to impose upon the Witherbees."

Polly was on the brink of tears. She was thoroughly frightened. Not until Rosalind, in self-defense, had placed the burden upon her did she realize the enormity involved in her recognition of the stranger. It was a mere procrastination, of course, due to bewilderment; but it had served as an authoritative introduction for the impostor.

"Mr. Morton!" exclaimed Polly suddenly.

"Well?"

"But they'll meet--don't you see? And they're supposed to know each other!"

"True," murmured Rosalind. "I'd forgotten that. Well, we've got to face it. Let's go and see what has happened."

Polly shrank back.

"You go," she begged.

"We'll go together," said Rosalind firmly. "We must see it through."

"But--"

"And listen! Not a word of explanation, unless something has already happened. Understand? No! Not a word! Go on calling him Billy. Keep it up until we find out something."

"I--I can't," wailed Polly.

"Nonsense!" Rosalind was losing patience. "Didn't I travel all the way down from Clayton with him, talking to him just as if he were really Mr. Kellogg? It's a pity if you can't help a little--after deliberately turning him loose on this island."

"Why not ex--expose him?"

"Not yet! We must find out some things first. We must know what it all means. Come now! For Heaven's sake, brace up, Polly! Nobody has been murdered yet."

"I'm afraid!"

"Then let me take the responsibility," declared Rosalind in a disgusted tone. "Only you've simply got to play your part--now that you've started it."

She seized the trembling Polly by the arm and started her at a rapid pace toward the house. Rosalind was bewildered not less than her companion, but she betrayed the fact by no outward sign. Even in the face of possible disaster, resolution did not desert her. Besides, her anger was still hot at the deception practised by the pudgy young man who was now so inadvertently a guest of the island.

Polly's efforts to hang back were ineffectual. There was grim energy in Rosalind's grip, so that the unwilling young woman found herself propelled forward, despite her vanished courage.

The Kellogg impostor was the center of a group on the porch. As they joined it, Mr. Morton approached from the other direction. The stout visitor was mopping his brow assiduously and answering questions in monosyllables. He seemed unable decide between his feet, for he stood first upon one, then upon the other, but never upon both at the same time.

Rosalind and Polly appeared, he observed them with an alarmed and imploring glance. Polly's eyes did not meet his, but the cool stare of her companion never winced.

"Here's Mr. Morton now!" exclaimed Mrs. Witherbee. "Of course, you know each other. Oh, Mr. Morton! Mr. Kellogg is here!"

Morton glanced casually over the head of the Perkins boy and studied the newcomer for a brief instant.

"By Jove, Kellogg, but I'm glad to see you!" he drawled.

The words were accompanied by the thrusting forth of a long arm, the hand attached to which seized the limp fingers of Kellogg. That young man permitted his jaw to drop an inch, where it hung, irresolute.

"Why--hello, Morton," he murmured.

"Glad you've joined us, I'm sure," said the Englishman unemotionally. "Awfully glad. How's New York?"

"F-fine!"

"And business?"

"Oh--er--excellent."

Rosalind was too deeply engrossed in the exchange of greetings to notice that Polly's hand was clasping her own with desperate energy. The haughty lady whom everybody wished to marry was dumfounded.

Morton had accepted the stranger! Morton--who knew as well as Polly that this was not the Billy Kellogg from whom he had won a year's income!

What _did_ it mean?

"Mr. Kellogg is up to take charge of his uncle's place while Mr. Davidson is away," explained Mrs. Witherbee, breathing a soft sigh of gratification at the absence of animosity between these knights of the gaming-table.

Perspiration streamed down the cheeks of the stout young man. He stared at Morton with the fascination of a bird looking upon the mythically hypnotic serpent. His glance finally wavered and met that of Rosalind. She saw the muscles of his jaw tighten, and watched him while he breathed deeply.

"Oh, I say," he began. "Something's wrong. I--"

Rosalind's head was moving slowly from side to side, and her glare was truly ferocious. The young man stopped. Then all traces of resolution wilted.

"Wrong?" asked Mrs. Witherbee anxiously.

"Why--er--you see--"

He gulped and looked again at Rosalind. Her head was still moving, and her lips were grim.

"What I meant was, Uncle Henry said there was something wrong at the island, and--well, you see, he wanted me to look out for it."

"What's wrong?" demanded the voice of Reginald Williams.

Unanimous dismay overspread the faces of the group. They remembered Reggy's heart!

"Nothing at all," said Rosalind coolly, as she stabbed the stout young man with a warning glance. "What Mr. Kellogg meant was that his uncle is engaged in some agricultural experiments, and that when he was called away it was necessary to have somebody there to look after them. So Mr. Kellogg came up."

It was a shot in the air, but Rosalind felt that agriculture was safe and non-exciting. The members of the group breathed again and looked at her in admiration. The stranger was also staring at her without comprehension.

"Agricultural experiments!" snorted Reggy.

"Certainly," said Rosalind freezingly. "Exactly that. He is experimenting with a new kind of cauliflower. It's very delicate, and it has to be looked after whenever there is the least danger of frost. That's why he wanted--burlap. Isn't it, Mr. Kellogg?"

"Why--yes," the fat youth assented faintly.

Once more Rosalind received a tribute from grateful eyes, but this time they contained astonishment as well as gratitude. She accepted the homage complacently. The role for which she had cast Reggy Williams was still his.

"After tea," suggested Mrs. Witherbee, "if it's really necessary, you can have the launch and go over to look after the cauliflower."

"It's not necessary!" exclaimed Kellogg hastily. "It's not a bit chilly this afternoon--not a bit."

Rosalind gently detached Polly from the circle and led her along the porch.

"Get that man aside," she ordered, "and pump him."

Polly quailed.

"You must! We've simply got to find out something about him. And you're the only one to do it; you're supposed to know him."

"But--did you see Mr. Morton? He recognized him."

"He pretended to," declared Rosalind. "And that's one of the things I want to know something about. That makes two people who have pretended to know him. Are you quite sure, Polly, that you're not mistaken?"

"Rosalind!"

"Oh, well, I suppose you're not. At any rate, it's your business to do some investigating."

"But I don't know what to ask."

"Heavens, Polly! There are a lot of things to find out. Who is he? What is he here for? Why did he pretend to know you? Why did Mr. Morton pretend to know him? Where is Billy Kellogg? How did a telegram to Kellogg fall into his hands? Why, he may have murdered Kellogg!"

Polly shrieked faintly.

"Of course, I don't believe he did," added Rosalind contemptuously. "That man, whoever he is, wouldn't murder a rabbit. But there's something exceedingly strange about the whole affair, and it is our business to find out what it means. Go and get him!"

"But what shall I say?" wailed Polly.

Rosalind sighed hopelessly.

"Go and ask him anything," she said. "Take him down to the summer-house to see the river--anything, I tell you! And then pump--pump--_pump_!"

Polly Dawson shivered, but obeyed. When it amounted to a clash of wills, Rosalind was irresistible.

The latter lady watched the couple depart in the direction of the summer-house and smiled resignedly. Polly was so literal! Had it been her own task, Rosalind would have taken him to the first available place--anywhere that was beyond ear-shot of the others. But Polly needed a sailing-chart and a compass.

Rosalind managed a meeting with Mr. Morton, but it resulted in no information, because she did not choose to acquaint that gentleman with the fact that she knew the Kellogg to be spurious. And Morton volunteered nothing. So far as the surface of him went, the meeting had not occasioned even a ripple.

it was half an hour later when Polly reappeared and beckoned Rosalind to a corner of the porch.

"He's--he's not Billy Kellogg!" whispered Polly triumphantly.

Rosalind regarded her with a minute of patience and pity.

"Is _that_ all you learned?" she asked.

"He admitted it!"

"Of course he did. What of that? You knew it, anyhow, didn't you?"

"Ye-es--but he confessed."

"And what else did he confess?"

"Nothing."

An exasperated gasp was Rosalind's only comment.

"He--he said he couldn't explain," added Polly in an agitated voice. "And he seemed so nervous about it that I felt sorry for him. Truly I did, Rosalind."

"I haven't the least doubt," icily. "Tell me exactly what you said."

"He said it first. He said that he knew that I knew that he wasn't Billy Kellogg, and I admitted that I did know it, and that I thought that he knew I knew it. And then before I could say anything, he said that he couldn't explain, and he hoped I would not say anything--particularly to you. He--he seemed to be afraid of you, Rosalind. And, of course, after he said he couldn't explain, I couldn't very well ask him. Now, could I?"

"Of course not," said Rosalind in a withering voice.

"And he doesn't look like a murderer either, Rosalind; so I didn't ask him about that. He said he'd explain as soon as he could, and he wanted to know what Mr. Morton thought about him. I told him I thought Mr. Morton probably thought what you did. Was that right?"

"I am not accountable for Mr. Morton's thoughts."

"At any rate, I'm sure he won't do any harm, Rosalind--he seems so dreadfully embarrassed."

"And after talking to him for half an hour, you haven't the least idea who he is or why he came here?" Rosalind demanded.

"I--I'm afraid not."

Rosalind threw her hands wide in a gesture of hopelessness.

"What do you propose to do about this--impostor?" she demanded. "You are the person chiefly responsible. You permitted Mrs. Witherbee to receive him."

"Why don't _you_ expose him?" asked Polly meekly.

Rosalind ignored the inquiry.

"Besides," added Polly, "he says he will go away to-morrow."

"He will _not_!" exclaimed Rosalind.

"You mean--"

"I mean that he will not leave this island until we know something about him if I have to sit up by myself and watch him."

Polly uttered an exclamation of awe.

"The man's an impostor--probably a thief," added Rosalind. "Do you suppose I shall permit him to go as he came? I think _not_!"

"You think we ought to tell the others?"

"Not yet. There is only one thing to do for the present--watch. That will be your business and mine. We must see to it that this man is not allowed to go away until everything is explained. Meanwhile, we will send for the person who is evidently the principal one to be concerned--Mr. Davidson."

"And wait?"

"Certainly. It cannot be very long. I shall telegraph to Mr. Davidson this evening; right away, in fact. It will not be difficult to reach him on the train. And we will keep this man here until Mr. Davidson returns."

"Suppose he will not stay, Rosalind?" ventured Polly timidly.

"Leave that to me. He'll stay!"

*CHAPTER XIX*

*STUNG!*

Rosalind not only wired to Mr. Davidson but, as an afterthought, she sent a message to Hastings & Hatch. The answer to the latter came promptly the following forenoon.

It did not serve to restore her equanimity. It described William Kissam Kellogg minutely, as Rosalind had requested, and the description was a photographic likeness of the young man who had confessed to Polly that he was no such person.

"Nothing to do but wait for Mr. Davidson," said Rosalind.

She spent some of the time, when it was not devoted to standing watch upon the stranger, in writing. After the call of the customs agents at Witherbee's Island, Rosalind had begun the preparation of a memorandum. It had already reached a length of several pages; there were daily additions. Also, there were classifications, thus:

What I Really Did. What They Think I Did. What I Know about Certain Things and Persons. What I Must Find Out About Them. What Must Never Be Found Out About Me. Things That I Have Said (for reference in connection with other things I may have to say before this is over) Suspicions That I Have.

Under the last head there was much writing, for Rosalind's mind was as crowded with suspicions as that of a crowned head is thronged with troubles. It was not strange, of course, that a large part of the memorandum dealt with the boatman. At every turn and corner of it his name and his deeds intruded.

But there were some things that Rosalind, even in the privacy of her diary, would not suffer herself to commit to plain English. These were represented by a cipher code, the key to which lay only in her memory.

For instance, a Maltese cross represented her experience in the tree; a star the shower-bath that came from the boatman's bucket, an asterisk the dance at the hotel where she found herself in the arms of Sam. All this was by way of mitigating the disaster that would befall if her memorandum chanced to come to the eyes of another.

The task of keeping watch upon the strange young man was more tedious than difficult. Most of the time he sat on the porch, staring at the lawn with inconsolable eyes. He made not the slightest attempt to escape; rather, he appeared to be in a sort of stupor. Polly felt sorry for him; Rosalind had only contempt.

A day passed thus and a second began with the young man still sitting and staring. Even Mrs. Witherbee granted that he was an unhappy acquisition, while everybody was unanimous in agreeing that work had produced an appalling effect upon Kellogg.

It was mid-morning when Rosalind, unable longer to endure the sight--she classified him as a vegetable--left Polly on guard and betook herself to the river. One thing she wanted was her bracelet. Of the boatman she had seen nothing; he had made no effort to restore her property.

With an intent that was really subconscious, she rowed one of the light skiffs in the direction of his island. There was also something mechanical rather than deliberate in the act of her landing there, making fast her boat, and ascending the path that led to his shack. Only the sound of voices awakened her from a day-dream.

She halted and listened. One of the voices was unmistakably that of Sam. The other, subdued and indifferent in tone, she finally identified as that of Mr. Morton.

Now all of her senses were alert and tingling. Perhaps it was a chance meeting; perhaps a plot; perhaps--

But it might be any one of so many things that it was not worth while to speculate. It was entirely a matter for observation.

Rosalind advanced cautiously, taking care that no stick snapped or stone rolled underfoot, and keeping herself screened behind the small trees and bushes that sheltered the path. Presently she sighted them. The spectacle was one that surprised her.

Sam and the Englishman were seated on the ground, facing each other. Between them lay a folded blanket. The boatman was shuffling a pack of cards.

"What I can't make out," Sam was saying, "is the luck of it--you walking right into my parlor, just as the fly went calling on the spider, and without an invitation at that. I'd been trying to think up a scheme to get you here, and, by jingo! you save me the trouble."

"Um--ah--just rowing about a bit, you know. Exercise and that sort of thing. Saw your island, and came ashore to have a look."

"And you didn't know it was my hangout, eh?"

The boatman was watching the Englishman closely.

"'Pon my word, no! Awfully sorry I've intruded."

"Intruded! Man alive, you're as welcome as good news! Sit still; you positively mustn't be going yet. I insist. I hear you're something of a card-player. That's why-- Confound that pack! My fingers are like thumbs lately."

The boatman gathered up the scattered pack and resumed his shuffling.

"You are about to make the acquaintance," he said, "of that certain branch of the great American sport known as freeze-out. You have ten chips; I have ten. Your chips are worth a thousand each; you'll have to take my word for it that mine are worth the same. The limit is anything you have in sight."

Morton yawned.

"Really," he drawled, "I'm not interested, you know."

"You will be," the boatman reassured him. "It's going to be highly interesting. Will you cut?"

"Rather, I think I'll say good day," and Morton made as if to rise.

Then Rosalind noticed that a pistol lay at the boatman's side and that his hand sought it. Morton observed the movement, too, for with a bored sigh he settled back on his crossed legs.

"I'll cut," he said.

The boatman dealt and picked up his hand. For a few seconds his antagonist seemed not to know the purpose of the five cards that lay, face downward, before him; then he lifted them languidly.

"I say," he yawned, "is a pair any good in this game?"

"Not too good," answered the boatman cheerfully. "How many?"