Part 5

"Now, let's see just where I stand," she murmured to herself, and began checking off her thoughts on her fingers.

*CHAPTER VI*

*"PALS!"*

A dirty gray boat, quite too large for a skiff, was being slowly propelled against the current with the aid of a pair of oars. The man who furnished the power was talking torridly to himself, to the boat, and to the oars, with occasional digressions in which he addressed himself to the river, the waning day, and the Goddess of Luck. He perspired a great deal more than he progressed.

Once he paused to wipe his forehead, an occupation which gave him opportunity to survey a nearby shore. Upon that shore he observed a lady walking. The lady was alone. The boatman smiled. He believed he could easily understand why the lady was alone, provided her tongue had not been paralyzed. He remembered it as a tongue that fended people off.

As he looked at the slowly moving figure it came to a halt. At the distance and in the dusk the boatman could not be sure that she was looking at him, yet he rested on his oars, waiting.

He saw something wave--a scarf or a handkerchief perhaps. He smiled again behind his shabby beard. Then he headed his boat toward the shore.

Not until he was close to the island did he turn his head, and then with the remark:

"Did you call me, ma'am?"

"What's the trouble now?" she asked sharply as a rejoinder.

"No trouble at all that I know of."

"Why are you rowing?"

"Oh! You mean about the boat? Why, my batteries have gone dead."

"How long since you replaced the cells?"

"I don't know. Maybe a year."

Rosalind Chalmers uttered an exclamation of disgust.

"I wish to be taken somewhere," she said. "It's important."

"I'll do my best to row you. How far is it--Europe?"

"I do not care to be rowed," she said. Her tone would have frozen mercury.

"Well, I'm headed for Clayton," he observed. "To buy some batteries. It's a long, long way; but if you'll be here until I get back I'll be at your service."

Rosalind considered briefly.

"If I find a set of cells for you," she said, "may I employ you for an hour or two?"

"Surest thing you know, ma'am."

"You'll wait here?"

"I'll not budge."

"Don't come to the dock," she warned.

"No fear."

She disappeared among the trees at a brisk walk, while the boatman edged his craft closer to the shore, made fast to a shelf of rock, and prepared to smoke. Twice he chuckled, once broke into a low laugh, as he sat in the stern of his launch, and waited.

As the dusk thickened he lighted a grimy lantern. Its dim, yellow rays illuminated the cock-pit, and his eyes fell upon a book that lay on the floor. He reached for it, and picked it up, and began a casual study of its pages.

There was one page, however, to which he reverted at frequent intervals, finally devoting his undivided attention to a study of it. He was thus engaged when a light footstep caused him to drop the volume.

The lady was standing within a few feet of him, a bundle in her arms.

"Catch it!" she commanded.

It unrolled itself as it reached his arms, and half a dozen dry cells clattered to the floor of the cock-pit. The wrapper that contained them was a light silk shawl. Almost simultaneously with the bundle Rosalind herself was aboard.

Sam, the boatman, picked up the nearest cell and examined it.

"Where 'd you get them?" he asked, looking up at her.

"None of your business," said Rosalind calmly. "I suggest that you put them to work at once."

He turned to the box that contained the dead batteries, disconnected the wires, and tossed the useless cells overboard. Then rather clumsily he began wiring the new cells into place.

Rosalind, seated opposite, watched the performance with impatience, but said nothing until he had nearly finished. Then it was:

"Don't you know better than to connect two positive poles? There--see--between the fourth and fifth cells."

He grinned without meeting her eyes and made the necessary change. Very quickly after that the launch was headed into the river, moving without the aid of oars.

"Nothing like having the master mechanic aboard," observed Sam as he refilled his pipe.

"Never presume to address me in that manner again," said Rosalind, turning swiftly upon him and drawing her skirt closer to her ankles.

"All right--Miss Chalmers--ma'am."

They ran on for several minutes in silence. Then he inquired indifferently:

"Which way did you say you wanted to go?"

"I didn't say. But"--her arm pointed across the river--"you may take me in that direction until I tell you further."

"That's Rockport, on the Canadian side," he observed as he altered the course. "That place where you see the lights."

"Very well; head for it."

The launch moved onward for fifteen minutes, only the steady exhaust of the engine breaking the silence. The boatman smoked steadily and devoted the chief part of his time to a study of his passenger's profile. She seemed to be thoroughly oblivious of his presence.

Abruptly, when Witherbee's Island was a good two miles astern, she leaned forward and switched off the spark.

"This will do," she said.

Sam made a cursory observation of their position, which was midway in the broad Canadian channel. The nearest island was probably a mile distant.

"I desire to talk to you," she remarked, turning a calculating pair of eyes upon him. "The reason why we came here is that I did not care to be interrupted."

He nodded.

"I think I may as well tell you," she added, "that I have a pistol with me."

"Well, it might come handy if we meet anything," he admitted, not a trace of surprise in his voice.

Having reached this initial point in their conversation, Rosalind paused. She was perplexed as to the best way to begin. She was a little worried; but he must never suspect that.

A long afternoon hour of study over certain events in which she had been an actor since her embarkation at Clayton the night before had convinced her that it was highly desirable to know something more concerning this common person, who made such poor work of his avowed occupation as a boatman. Yet that was not exactly it, either; what she most wanted to know was something concerning the plans and intentions of this person in case certain contingencies arose.

"Your name is Sam, I believe?" she asked suddenly.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Sam what?"

"Oh, Sam anything. Whatever you say; I aim to please."

"You live here?"

"Hereabouts, ma'am."

"Of course you are a thief."

"You've said that before," he remarked placidly. "You said I was a burglar and a house-breaker, too."

"But you are!"

"Am I?"

Rosalind had no patience with people who fenced, but she checked her temper for the moment.

"After what I observed at an early hour this morning," she said, "I cannot see that there is any doubt of it. You entered and robbed--or attempted to rob--Mr. Davidson's house."

"Well," he said slowly, looking up at her, "I don't happen to be on the witness-stand. But I might remark that I didn't enter or attempt to enter Mr. Witherbee's house at any rate."

She flushed angrily, but she had learned something.

"Then you spied," she said.

He made a non-committal gesture.

"It's a matter of no importance," she added hastily. "I believe you understand that I am a guest at the Witherbees'."

"Of course," he assented. "I expect you explained the whole thing to them this morning."

She looked at him narrowly, but his face was impassive behind its beard. Nevertheless, she had a disquieting feeling that he suspected she had not explained anything--and did not care to explain.

"But you were simply a plain intruder at Mr. Davidson's," Rosalind went on.

"I haven't admitted it, ma'am."

"Oh, why quibble about it?" she exclaimed.

"All right, then; we won't quibble," he answered, after a second's thought. "We'll go to it a little bit straighter. I'll say this: I did land on Mr. Davidson's island. That'll be enough for a while--except this: I wasn't working alone."

"You mean, there was somebody else who--"

"Always," remarked Sam confidentially, "when there's a house-breaking to be pulled off--that is, 'most always--a man doesn't work alone. He has to have one pal. If he does the inside work, his pal sticks around outside, doing lookout duty, and to help make the getaway. It's one of the most important parts of the job. Now, whatever I did or didn't do at Davidson's last night, the fact remained that I needed my pal a whole lot when it came to making a quick duck."

He paused and studied her, a faint twinkle in his dark eyes.

"You mean--"

Rosalind's voice was trembling.

"I mean that my pal started an engine that I couldn't have started in a year," he added, complacently.

"You--you villain!"

"Ma'am?"

"You unspeakable scoundrel!"

Rosalind had risen to her feet. Her hand crept to a pocket in her sweater.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"We are not!"

Rosalind's tongue was loosed again.

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

"How much for what?" he inquired mildly.

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

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

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

"How much to leave you out of it?"

"Exactly!"

He considered the proposal for a little.

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

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

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

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

"You mean--"

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

"You beast!"

"Another new one," he commented blandly.

"I have a mind--"

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

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

The boldness of the fellow's assumption sickened her.

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

He shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

"Right!"

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

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

"Thank you, ma'am."

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

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

Rosalind turned upon him.

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

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

It was some minutes later when she observed:

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

The boatman looked surprised.

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

"What's his name?"

"Mr. Morton."

An exclamation from the steersman.

"Morton--the Englishman?"

"Evidently you know him."

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

Rosalind nodded.

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

"I haven't the least idea."

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

"Yes."

"What did he say?"

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

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

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

Sam laughed quietly.

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

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

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

The voice of the boatman was rather satirical.

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

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

"I have."

Sam seemed to find cause for gentle mirth.

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

"That might be true," he admitted.

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

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

HENRY DAVIDSON

She looked at the boatman. He was intent upon a course that would land them at the point where Rosalind had embarked upon her baffling voyage.

Davidson! This, then, was the explanation of the rummaged library! This--a Social Register--constituted the booty of a thief!

Again she ventured a glance at Sam. He did not appear to notice that she had picked up the book.

Her fingers marked the spot at which the volume lay open. Now she turned to the page. Rosalind gasped softly when she found herself among the C's--yes, and at that very page among the C's that listed the habitat, the personnel, and the lineage of the Chalmers family of New York!

The book dropped from her hands and thudded gently upon the flooring. A sensation of vague alarm succeeded her initial amazement.

What was the creature planning now?

As the boat touched the island she leaped ashore quickly, and started in the direction of the house.

"Wait, please!" called the boatman.

She halted.

"I guess you forgot something, didn't you?" he said.

"Forgot? Oh--you mean I am to pay you?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"How much?"

Her purse was in her hand.

"Only five this time."

She handed him the money without a word.

"Any other time you want a boat," he observed, "you can find me 'most anywhere."

"I suppose," she said frigidly, "that that is part of the price--of silence?"

"I didn't put it that way," he answered good-naturedly. "But I certainly do like to have a handy passenger on board."

She was moving away when he halted her again.

"By the way, Miss Chalmers, you might tell me something. Once in a while this old bunch of junk they call an engine seems to get all heated up over nothing at all, even when she's not running fast. Now, when she does that, ought I--"

"Hire a mechanic!" she said sharply.

"That's what I thought," he drawled. "I'll be looking you up real soon at that rate."

Rosalind was gone.

*CHAPTER VII*

*NEW SLANTS*

The boatman, after swinging well clear of Witherbee's Island, hesitated as to his course. "There might be an answer to-night," he muttered. "Still, it's pretty quick, seeing I only wired this morning. I guess I'll wait until to-morrow. I'll be sure to hear then."

Without further ado he headed the launch into the channel that runs between Wellesley and Hill islands, following a course so nearly midway between them that the wake of his craft would have served as a visible boundary-line between the United States and Canada. Several motor-boats passed him; one hailed sharply, warning him to show lights. He paid no attention, but steadily held his way.

Half an hour of running brought him opposite a small, dark spot on the water, around which he described a half-circle while he kept his eyes intently upon it. Then, apparently satisfied, he headed in toward what proved to be a rocky, wooded island.

There was a natural landing-place at the point he touched--a cove protected on three sides by bulwarks of the gneiss rock that rises stalwart, here as elsewhere, out of the great St. Lawrence.

Making fast his craft, he stepped ashore, and followed a narrow path that struggled over the stony surface, beset on either side by underbrush and small trees.

The path ended at a cabin. He pushed open a door, entered, searched about in the darkness for a moment, then struck a match and lighted the wick of a lantern that stood on a table in the center of the single room.

The cabin was clean, plain, and cheerless. There was a cot in one corner, a small iron stove, a shelf with a few cooking-utensils, and one chair.

"No place like home," he commented with a grin. "And I suppose I'll be kicked out of here if anybody gets wise."

He helped himself to a few crackers from a tin box on the shelf, sat down, and began munching them in an absent-minded manner. Presently his wandering glance fixed itself upon a broken mirror that hung from a nail driven into one of the walls. He picked up the lantern, advanced across the cabin, and held the light so that he could survey himself in the glass.

"You're a nice-looking object," he assured his reflection as one hand stroked his beard. "I've got a mind--"

A lidless cigar-box nailed against the wall contained a razor, a lather-brush, and half a cake of soap. He picked up the razor and once more studied himself in the mirror.

"No," he said, shaking his head slowly as he returned the razor to its place. "Don't get foolish. You can't be useful and beautiful at the same time."

He replaced the lantern on the table and went to the cot, where he stretched himself on the gray blankets and lay staring up at the roof-boards for many minutes. The boatman's thoughts were apparently amusing, for once he laughed aloud, while many times he chuckled.

"That was a close go last night," he remarked, addressing himself to a knot-hole, through which, by a little maneuvering of his head, he could focus a brilliant star. "Just a little closer and they'd have had me. It was the master mechanic who did the trick.

"Some mechanic, too! A pal worth having, that lady--a sort of lucky strike, it looks to me. She's not gentle exactly, with that tongue of hers; but she's all there when it comes to getting action. Had a gun in her pocket, too."

He laughed again.

"A gun--for poor Sam!" he added. "Guess I'll have to be careful. And yet--

"No, sir! I'm not going to lose sight of this proposition. It looks too good to me. And right on the same island, by Jiminy! Couldn't be planted better--for me. Why, she's just got to be a pal!"

Presently he closed his eyes and made an effort to sleep, a task which he abandoned with suddenness after five minutes.

"No use; I'm too curious," he muttered, rising. "I'm going up to Clayton. It might happen to have come in."

He blew out the light and walked from the cabin, making his way back to where the launch was moored. A moment later he was backing out of the cove. Then he headed northward, through the narrowing waterway that led him past Swiftwater Point, and then along the channel that sweeps the shore of Wellesley Island.

Abreast of the lights of Grand View, he swung almost due south and laid a course for Clayton, making the briefest possible detours to avoid the islands that lay in his path.

At Clayton he sought a small, obscure wharf, to which he made fast the launch. His excursion into town carried him upon none of the principal thoroughfares, but wound an irregular course through back streets, until he found himself at a small, poorly lighted frame building that served the double purpose of hotel and saloon.

He entered by a side door, took a seat at a table in a dingy corner of a back room and rapped smartly with his knuckles on the pine top. There was a shuffling of feet in the bar-room and a man appeared through a swinging-door, wiping his hands on a dirty apron as he came.

"Hello, Sam!" he said.

"Anything come?" asked the boatman abruptly.

For answer the man in the apron began a search of his pockets, finally producing a folded yellow envelope. The boatman reached for it quickly and ran his finger under the flap of the envelope.

"Ginger ale," he said briefly without looking up.

The bearer of the message went back to the bar-room to fill the order.

As Sam's eyes read the telegram they widened perceptibly. He smiled faintly, then nodded, carefully placed the telegram and its envelope in the pocket of his shirt, and looked up at the returning bearer of his drink.

"Everything O.K., I hope," observed the man in the apron, as he stood a glass and a bottle on the table.

"O.K.," confirmed Sam. "I might have to have another message sent here. Will it be all right?"

"Sure; as many as you like. It ain't costing me anything."

The boatman drank his ginger ale hastily, threw a quarter on the table, and went out.

Now, whistling softly and complacently, he strolled through a more pretentious part of the town, halting occasionally to examine store windows. He entered one place, made some trivial purchases, and offered in payment therefor a five-dollar bill that had until recently reposed in the purse of the master mechanic.

"Yep; a mighty useful pal," he murmured as he gathered up his change.

"How's that?" asked the storekeeper.