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.”
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.”