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!