Chapter IX The Ascending Scale
Rosalind did not have a headache, and she did not take a nap. Instead, when she had closed the door of her room she faced herself in the mirror.
“You are becoming a great liar,” she said bluntly.
With the fidelity of a movie, the image in the mirror returned the compliment.
“On second thought,” said Rosalind, “I withdraw that. You are not becoming a great liar—you are a great liar.”
The lips of the animated image assured her that the amendment was accepted.
“You have lied about little things, big things, foolish things, serious things—everything. I detest lying. It is cowardly, vulgar, and demoralizing. Worse than that, it’s troublesome. But”—she sighed softly—“occasionally it is necessary.”
She turned abruptly away from the image, went to a writing-desk, and spent several minutes with a pen and a sheet of paper. When she had reviewed her composition with care, she folded it into small compass, slipped it into a vanity-box, and snapped the lid smartly.
“That’s just to make sure,” she murmured. “I suppose there will be more later.”
After that she sat passively by the window for fifteen minutes, appearing to watch the tennis-players, yet devoting her complete attention to her thoughts.
Smuggling, of course, was not so bad as burglary, she reflected. Lots of excellent people smuggled—not in a really vicious way, and not with the least hint of sinister intent; it was just a sort of sporting proposition. They did not smuggle for a living, or even for incidental profit; they were not professionals.
She knew a lot of perfectly amiable, well-bred, and charming smugglers, who smuggled a trifle now and then for the excitement of beating the game. There was herself, for instance.
But professional smuggling was different, she told herself severely. And when it was coupled with burglary, it assumed a serious aspect. She would not permit herself to be lenient in this. Yet she was intensely curious.
If Sam was a smuggler as well as a burglar, who was H. Evelyn Morton? What did Sam know about Morton, and what did the Englishman know about Sam?
Of course, it was natural for Sam to attempt to divert suspicion from himself. But why throw it upon Morton?
“If it wasn’t for the smuggling part I think I could understand,” mused Rosalind. “If Mr. Morton won all this money from Mr. Davidson’s nephew, I suppose it has been a matter of some talk. Probably this boatman has learned of the fact, and is merely waiting for an opportunity to rob Mr. Morton. And Mr. Morton probably has his suspicions, and is keeping a watch upon Sam for his own protection. That’s perfectly reasonable.
“But, then, why should Sam try to get Mr. Morton into trouble, and probably thereby spoil his own chance of robbing him? I can’t understand that, unless he is incredibly stupid. And—he isn’t stupid.”
At the end of her fifteen-minute study Rosalind made a resolution and went down-stairs to see about executing it. She contrived, with no great expenditure of effort, to detach Mr. Morton from his tennis.
“Don’t you think,” said Rosalind, “that it would be great fun to go fishing?”
“Upon my word, I never gave it a thought,” said Mr. Morton. “But I believe you’re right, you know, Miss Chalmers.”
“Then let’s.”
“From the wharf?”
“No! That’s a stupid place.”
“We’ll try the point, then.”
“No!”
Mr. Morton looked puzzled.
“We must get a boat,” explained Rosalind.
“Oh!”
“A boat and a boatman who knows where there is good fishing to be found.”
He considered the idea for a moment.
“I—er—believe Mr. Witherbee is using his own launch this afternoon,” Mr. Morton observed. “But—well, you know, we might be able to get—”
He paused in doubt. During an instant’s silence their eyes met steadily.
“Yes, I think we might,” said Rosalind. “Will you see if he’s anywhere in sight?”
With a bow, Morton strode in the direction of the shore.
“I am rather curious to see those two persons together,” murmured Rosalind, as she watched him go upon his errand.
It was nearly an hour before he put in an appearance.
“Awfully sorry to have kept you waiting,” he said. “But I had to take a boat and row about a bit to find him. It’s all right, however; he’s at the wharf.”
“That’s very lovely of you,” declared Rosalind graciously. “We might bring some of the others, too, if you like. Suppose you hunt them up. I’ll go down to the boat.”
She found the boatman wiping the seats and otherwise engaged in the discouraging task of trying to make his craft tidy. He greeted her with a brief nod.
“Fishing?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Muskies?”
“Why—yes.”
“Well, that’s good sport,” he commented.
“You can take us to the proper place, of course?”
“Who—me?”
The boatman shook his head.
“Then why in the world do you pretend to hire out—-”
Sam interrupted her.
“You don’t want to go fishing,” he said.
Rosalind’s cheeks assumed a pink tint.
“Not for muskies, anyhow,” added Sam.
In his eyes was a hint of amusement that angered her.
“It is my intention to go fishing,” she declared coldly. “It is not my intention to have my word questioned.”
He shrugged indifferently.
“Oh, very well, Miss Chalmers! How many in the party? Space is limited, you know.”
“Myself—Mr. Morton—perhaps half a dozen others.”
“Miss Dawson?” he asked.
Rosalind looked at him in quick astonishment.
“Because I can’t take Miss Dawson,” he added.
“You mean to say—”
“What I really meant to say was ‘won’t’ instead of ‘can’t.’ I won’t take Miss Dawson.”
For an instant Rosalind was quite too surprised for speech, a condition easily apparent to Sam, who volunteered further:
“No use to ask questions, Miss Chalmers. I’ll give no reasons.”
“This is the most unheard-of thing yet!” she exclaimed. “You mean to say that you presume to select my own guests for me?”
“No, ma’am; not exactly. But in this case— Here they come now. I guess it’s all right; I don’t see her.”
Morton appeared on the wharf, followed by the Winter girls and Fortescue Jones.
“This will be all, I think,” he said.
Rosalind did not meet the boatman’s eye as the party embarked. She had a feeling that there would be an insulting gleam of satisfaction in it.
For fully half an hour after they left the wharf she was a silent member of the party, engrossed in wonderment over this new development. It seemed to possess no meaning whatever; at least, none that she could even speculate upon. He would not take Polly Dawson in his boat.
Sam sat stolidly in the stern, smoking and watching the river. Occasionally his glance wandered to Morton, yet incuriously. This passenger seemed to possess no more interest for him than the Winter girls or the young man who toiled unskilfully over a jointed rod. As for Morton, the existence of the steersman did not appear to be within his ken.
Suddenly Rosalind remembered. She had come to study, not to fish. She had contrived a meeting so that she might observe a result. It was an experiment in human alchemy; put her Englishman and her boatman together and she felt that a reaction was inevitable. So now she began to observe.
Disappointment did not improve her temper. There was no reaction—no smoke, no fire, no explosion. They did not speak, neither did they exchange furtive glances. They were maddeningly at ease. Rosalind was soon disgusted with her experiment. She was quite willing to abandon it.
But the Jones young man was fishing by this time. The two strikes and two misses had rewarded his efforts, and he was brought to a pitch of absorbed excitement. Rosalind felt she was doomed to a dull afternoon. It had now degenerated into a common fishing-party, even though there was but one fisherman, and it did not lie in her mouth to explain that it was never meant to be an angling affair at all.
She attempted to put her mind into a state of resignation, the most difficult mental feat she ever attempted, and one at which she usually met failure. Morton was dull when he talked at all. He was three per cent. conversation and ninety-seven per cent. silence. The Winter girls knitted as if it were a penance. There was momentary hope when Fortescue Jones broke the tip of his rod, but that took wings when he produced another.
Only the boatman truly enjoyed himself. Hatless, he reveled in the sun that bathed his head and bared neck. His pipe was drawing smoothly and steadily. But, most wonderful of all, his engine pulsated as rhythmically and surely as the power-plant of a six-thousand-dollar limousine. It was fairly uncanny in its perfection.
The launch ranged past the eastern tip of Grenadier Island, then across toward the Canadian shore, thence up-river, Fortescue Jones fishing desperately, and bringing nothing within fifty feet of a gaff.
“We’re going too fast,” complained the fisherman.
Sam turned a glance of inquiry at Rosalind. She shook her head. The launch held its pace.
Another half-hour passed with scarce a word spoken aboard. Rosalind was bored to desperation. Her experiment in alchemy was the flattest kind of failure. She turned upon young Jones with sudden and undeserved severity.
“I should think it would be exceedingly tiresome to catch nothing,” she said.
“It is,” he assented hastily.
“Then why do you fish?”
“Why—why, I thought it was a fishing-party!”
“Without fish?”
“I’ve had half a dozen strikes.”
She sighed and flashed a savage look at the boatman. He grinned.
“Shall we turn back?” she asked Morton, who was stroking his mustache in a preoccupied manner.
For answer he pointed toward a power-boat almost astern and following at a rapid rate.
“Seems, by Jove, as if they wished to speak with us,” he said. “A chap just waved.”
Rosalind studied the oncoming craft. It carried a small British ensign at the stern. Four men were standing in the cock-pit, staring intently. As she watched one of them signaled.
“Stop the boat!” she commanded.
Sam obeyed, then turned for the first time to observe the pursuing vessel, now close aboard.
As the launch slackened to a slow drift the smart-looking power-boat with the British flag ranged alongside. A man who appeared to be in authority touched his cap formally.
“Who’s the owner of this vessel?” he asked.
“Me,” answered Sam without removing his pipe from his mouth.
“Name of vessel?” demanded the stranger briskly.
“Fifty-Fifty.”
“What?”
“I said Fifty-Fifty.”
“Registered?”
The boatman shrugged his shoulders.
“Let’s see your license.”
“Oh, this is an American boat,” said the owner indifferently.
“Well, you’re in Canadian waters. I’m a Canadian officer. I am entitled to inspect your papers. Let’s see them.”
“Didn’t bring ’em.”
The man turned and held a whispered conversation with two of his colleagues. One of them nodded.
“We’ll probably have to take you ashore for that,” he remarked very sternly.
Sam displayed no evidence of interest. He merely looked at Rosalind. That lady had been suddenly aroused from boredom. She was very much interested.
“I am responsible for the boat being here,” she said. “I am hiring it. What is the trouble?”
“The trouble is, madam, that this man is navigating Canadian waters without being able to produce proper papers.”
“But that does not seem like a very serious offense,” remarked Rosalind. “I imagine it is being done every day.”
“It’s been done a number of times by this vessel, madam. We’ve watched it.”
“Still, I do not see that it is a matter of much importance. I am sure no damage has been done.”
“We’re not so sure, madam.”
A second man twitched the sleeve of the speaker, and they conferred in low tones.
“What is your name, madam?” demanded the spokesman, turning again to Rosalind.
She told him.
“And the names of the members of your party, please?”
She gave him those, while he made a careful memorandum of each.
“And this man?” with a nod at the boatman.
“Sam.”
“Sam what?”
“Merely Sam, so far as I know.”
He looked at the boatman for further enlightenment.
“Sam merely,” echoed that person.
Again there was a whispered conference aboard the second craft.
“Do you know a man named Schmidt?” asked the one in authority, speaking to the boatman.
Sam indicated that he did.
“Heinrich Schmidt?”
“I believe that’s his name. They fit together, anyhow.”
“Who is he?”
“One of my best customers.”
“Where’s he from?”
“Chicago, so he told me. What’s the game?”
“You took him to Rockport three days ago, didn’t you?”
“That’s right.”
“And to Gananoque?”
“Right again.”
“And he’s been to Kingston twice with you?”
“Three times,” corrected Sam.
“What was he doing at those places?”
“Doing? How do I know? I didn’t follow him.”
The four men in the strange boat withdrew to the farther end of their craft and put their heads together. Rosalind watched them impatiently. Even Morton displayed a mild interest, while the Winter girls stopped knitting and looked worried.
“Where does this man Schmidt stop?” demanded the spokesman when he emerged once more from the conference.
“Oh, he’s been drifting around at two or three places on the American side.”
“Who does he meet?”
“Give it up,” answered Sam. “I’m not in charge of him. I’m just his boatman.”
“If you are looking for smugglers,” interrupted Rosalind, “why—”
“We’re not, madam,” snapped the stranger.
He turned again to Sam.
“Did this man Schmidt ever discuss military subjects with you?”
“Yes, indeed. That is, once.”
The men exchanged significant glances.
“When—and what?”
“The last time I had him out,” said Sam. “He wanted to know if I didn’t think Grant gave General Sigel a raw deal when he put somebody else on the job in the Shenandoah Valley.”
The spokesman in the trim power-boat frowned heavily.
“That all?”
“All I remember. Except he said his father fought with Sigel and always claimed that Halleck framed him. I don’t know whether he did or not, but I said I’d speak about it some time and see if I could find out. You wouldn’t happen to know yourself, would you?”
The man glared suspiciously. Rosalind turned her face away and began dabbling one hand in the water, over the side of the boat.
“Well, I guess we’ll take you up to Kingston,” said the spokesman after a minute of deliberation. “There are a few things that need looking into.”
Sam glanced about him casually.
“Not now you won’t,” he observed as he proceeded to refill his pipe. “We’ve crossed the line.”
The man made a swift survey of the river and the islands and uttered an angry exclamation.
“You see, you talked too much,” added the boatman deferentially. “You talked so long that we drifted over into American water. If you try to take me now they’ll send a battleship after me, or an ultimatum, or something else just as bad.”
There was a hurried consultation among the four strangers, with evidences of disagreement. It ended when the man in command turned upon Sam with a stern visage.
“Hereafter,” he said, “you enter Canadian waters or ports at your own risk. In the name of the English government I warn you. I also authorize you to extend the same warning to the man Heinrich Schmidt. If he is found north of the international boundary-line let him look out for himself. That applies to you, your boat, and any passengers you may have aboard.”
Marjorie Winter turned pale.
“But really,” she ventured timidly, “I’m very sure that none of us is against you, sir. See—these are for Belgians.”
She held up a half-finished sock.
The man who sounded the warning did not look at it. He gave a sharp command and the boat with the British ensign snorted off across the river.
“I think we will go home now,” observed Rosalind.
Without a word Sam started his engine.
It was a silent party that returned to Witherbee’s Island. Rosalind was glad it was so. The affair was at once too big with possibilities and too nebulous as to facts for idle gossip.
To the best of her knowledge she had never seen a spy. She wondered if she were really looking at one now. He did not look like one.
Nor, for that matter, did Morton, who might well be expected to display interest at the very least if it were true that Sam and the Schmidt man were making voyages into Canadian ports that might end in nooses.
First a common thief, next a smuggler—now a spy! Rosalind found pleasurable excitement in her thoughts. Gertrude Witherbee was on the wharf when the launch came in. She was waving a yellow envelope at Rosalind.
“Telegram for you!” she called.
Rosalind took the message and read as follows:
“Will arrive some time this evening.
“WILLIAMS.”
Reginald Williams, the persistent one, was coming! Rosalind gasped. Not that she minded Williams or his persistence. He was well enough in his way, and he could always be properly discouraged. She had no fears on that point.
But Reginald was the bracelet man! And the bracelet was now upon the smoothly tanned arm of Gertrude. And Reginald would see it—and recognize it. And he would wonder and ask questions and blurt something. There would be explanations and revelations and—
Rosalind shuddered, and pondered the matter deeply.
“It simply cannot be!” she exclaimed aloud.
“What can’t be, dear?” asked Gertrude.
“Why—oh, nothing. I was just doing some oral thinking.”
Gertrude smiled wisely. She knew about Reginald. And she knew—or thought she knew—that Reginald would ask again, and that, as Rosalind said, it simply could not be.