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!”