Chapter XXIII Unscrambling the Mystery
Hot resentment overcame Rosalind—resentment at the boatman’s duplicity, at the trick he had played upon her, at her own lack of perception. It was succeeded by a sense of extraordinary humiliation. She felt as if a cross section had been carved out of her life and spread before vulgar eyes upon the slide of an inexorable microscope—for she did not pause to consider that much of what had happened was known only to Sam and herself.
Then came a period of panic. There would be revelations, of course. How far would they go?
Yet, while her mind was in an agony of agitation, she managed to maintain her poise. Steadily, and without wincing, she stared into the face of Billy Kellogg—and waited.
Mr. Davidson stepped back a pace and surveyed his nephew.
“But—when did you get back?” he cried.
“I haven’t been away.”
“What!”
William Kissam Kellogg smiled benignantly at his uncle.
“But how—what—where—”
Mr. Davidson paused to recover his breath. The glance of the ex-boatman wandered to other members of the party.
“Hello, Polly!” he said.
Polly was speechless—unable to answer the salutation. She gazed upon Kellogg as she would at some supernatural thing.
“There seems to be a great deal of fuss about nothing in particular,” he remarked. “What’s up?”
“Up!” repeated Mr. Davidson. “Everything’s up! You’re alive!”
“I hope so.”
“We—we thought you were murdered,” faltered Polly, finding speech.
“Honestly? What put that idea into your head?”
For answer, Mr. Davidson pointed grimly at the stout young man in the chair.
“Hello, Bob!” said Billy Kellogg casually. “You couldn’t duck it—eh?”
The prisoner shook his head miserably.
The nephew chuckled as he greeted the captive with a hand-shake.
“Bob’s all right,” he assured his uncle. “He’s a friend of mine.”
Mr. Davidson’s jaw was hanging.
“But you—you—”
“Why not introduce me, Uncle Henry?”
The master of the house gulped, and performed the ceremony in a bewildered and perfunctory style. Toward the last he arrived at Rosalind.
“My nephew, Billy Kellogg,” he said lamely.
Rosalind bowed almost imperceptibly. Her eyes were hard and questioning. Inwardly she trembled; but she did not flinch. The former boatman studied her with a whimsical glance.
“We’ve met before, Miss Chalmers,” he said, bowing.
“I believe so,” she answered briefly.
“You see,” said Kellogg, turning to his uncle, “I’ve had the honor of serving Miss Chalmers at odd times within the last few days. We— Why, hello, Reggy!”
For the first time he appeared to observe Reginald Williams, who had been watching the scene in dumb amazement.
“Bill Kellogg!” he exclaimed. “You mean to tell me that you were—”
Billy nodded and grinned.
“Of course I don’t need to introduce Morton,” said Mr. Davidson.
Billy looked at the Englishman and nodded coldly.
“No, you don’t need to,” he agreed.
Mr. Morton preserved a calm exterior. He contented himself with returning the bow.
“Now explain yourself!” ordered Mr. Davidson peremptorily. “When did you quit New York?
“Haven’t been there, Uncle Henry.”
“You haven’t been at work—at all?
“Not at the banking-game.”
“But how the—”
“Somebody lend me a cigarette,” said Billy. “Thanks. I see I’ve got to tell all.”
He cast a swift, malicious glance at Rosalind.
“You see, Uncle Henry,” he went on, “it wasn’t that I minded banking so much as the fact that I hated to go away and leave this crook here with ten thousand dollars of perfectly good money.”
He nodded toward Morton.
“Crook?” echoed Mr. Davidson.
“Sure! Did you think I wasn’t wise? I knew it the very night he trimmed me. But he was your guest in our house; so what could I say?
“I knew I’d been buncoed the minute I thought the thing over. So I didn’t propose to go away and leave him on the job. I decided to stick around and take a chance on getting it back.”
Morton was imperturbable.
“And I got it back,” added Billy triumphantly, with a fleeting look at Rosalind.
Mr. Davidson turned a questioning glance upon the Englishman, who nodded and smiled faintly. A bewildered look overspread the face of the master of the house.
“I introduced him to poker,” explained Billy.
“Introduced—him!” cried his uncle. “Introduced Morton to poker? Why, you young cub, he played poker before you were out of knee-breeches!”
It was the turn of the young man in white flannels to stare.
“He knows more poker in a minute than you do in a month,” declared Mr. Davidson contemptuously. “He eats it! And as for being a crook—well, he happens to be the English representative of my own firm; that’s all.”
Rosalind enjoyed the discomfiture of the ex-captain of the Fifty-Fifty. “But, uncle, he—”
“Oh, shucks! You think he trimmed you at bridge, do you? All right; he did. I told him to!”
Billy Kellogg swallowed hard.
“That’s what I brought him here for,” said Uncle Henry. “You needed a lesson, and there was only one way to give it to you. I told him to come here and skin you alive. I wanted a good excuse to send you to work. I told him to trim you for a year’s income if he could. And you did, didn’t you, Morton?”
The Englishman shrugged in a bored way.
“It was strictly a matter of business between Morton and myself. You were to get your money back at the end of a year—if you behaved. Why, he told me it was as easy as taking a saucer of milk away from a blind kitten!”
Rosalind smiled and made a motion to attract the attention of Billy. She did not want him to miss the smile. He didn’t.
“And now explain where you’ve been,” commanded Uncle Henry.
“I haven’t been far,” said his nephew in a crestfallen tone. “I went over to the American side for a while and thought it over. I decided I wouldn’t be a banker. I made up my mind I’d stay here as long as Morton did and lay for him. But of course I didn’t want you to get wise, so I kept out of sight until I could grow whiskers. I’m glad they’re gone.”
He rubbed his chin tenderly.
“After I got whiskers enough I looked around for something to do. A fellow had a boat cheap and I bought it. I had money enough for that. Then I went to work.”
Polly Dawson gasped.
“You—were that boatman!”
The nephew nodded.
“You mean the burglar?” demanded Mr. Davidson, whirling upon her.
“You only thought I was a burglar,” explained Billy. “I just dropped in now and then when I needed anything.”
“You unprincipled rascal! Do you know the Cain you’ve raised?”
“Something of it, Uncle Henry. I didn’t mean to make too much trouble, of course—not any more than was necessary.”
Mr. Davidson suddenly recollected the prisoner, who sat in the chair.
“Who’s that, then?” he demanded.
“Oh, he’s Bob Murray.”
“And who in blazes—”
“An old friend. You see, Bob and I went to college together. Bob’s a lot different from me. He likes to work. In fact, he has to work. Just about the time you shipped me off to Hastings & Hatch—or thought you did—I heard from Bob. He needed a job. So I gave him mine. I sent him the letter and the full directions. And I understand he’s done me credit, too.”
“Is this true?” demanded Mr. Davidson, glaring at the captive.
The young man nodded.
“Then why didn’t you say so?”
“Because I swore him to secrecy,” explained Billy. “I told Bob not to squeal until I gave the word. And he stuck by me.”
Uncle Henry only half succeeded in suppressing an expletive.
“Of course, Bob didn’t want to come when you sent for me,” continued Mr. Davidson’s nephew. “But I understand the bank ordered him to come, so he couldn’t help himself. He knew I was up here, anyway, and figured that I’d straighten it out for him.”
The stout young man breathed deeply and contentedly.
“You’re a pair of young fools—and scoundrels!” said Uncle Henry heatedly. “One is as bad as the other.”
“Oh, hold on,” protested Billy. “Go easy there. Bob’s a model young banker. They tell me you’ve said so yourself; that you were so proud of him you spread the news around.”
Mr. Davidson gave his nephew a furious look.
“And to think—none of us recognized you!” exclaimed Polly, staring at the former captain of the one-cylinder launch.
“You were the only one I was afraid of,” laughed Billy. “You see, you knew me; the rest didn’t—except Morton. That’s why I wouldn’t let you aboard one day after they’d planned to take you. I knew you’d recognize my voice.”
“But didn’t Mr. Morton?”
All eyes were turned upon the Englishman. He coughed, but said nothing.
“Of course he knew me; but I did not care about him. I knew he would not squeal. You see, I had it on him about the cards—or I thought I did.”
Mr. Morton permitted himself to smile in a bored way.
“And now I understand why you were deaf and dumb to me,” blurted Reggy Williams with a sheepish flush.
“You see, Reggy and I are old pals,” remarked Billy. “I knew he’d never recognize me in my old rig and with the beard; but I didn’t dare speak to him. So I played dummy.”
Reggy turned an inquiring glance upon Rosalind.
“Was he a dummy when you hired him?” he inquired.
She shook her head.
“But you didn’t tell me that!”
The silence threatened catastrophe. It was broken by a strident laugh from Billy Kellogg.
“Oh, I’ve been having a lot of fun,” he said. “Of course I didn’t mean to get you all worked up over burglars. Remember the night, Uncle Henry, when you and the help hunted the whole island and then chased me in the launch?”
Rosalind breathed again. The boatman was doing his best to save her.
“Do I remember?” shouted Mr. Davidson. “You bet I do! You young reprobate! I might have shot you; do you know that? And—and who was it that helped you out?”
“Helped me out?” repeated Billy, with an innocent stare and a wrinkling of his forehead. “How do you mean?”
“The other boat—the fellow who boarded you and got your engine going.”
The young man in flannels shook his head in a puzzled way.
“No fellow boarded me,” he said.
“I tell you we heard him—saw him.”
“He didn’t come aboard my boat, Uncle Henry. I’ll swear.”
“Billy, you’re lying!”
Mr. Davidson’s nephew indicated that he was deeply affronted by the accusation. He gazed solemnly at Rosalind. She was idly turning the leaves of a book that lay on the library table.
“I suppose I must put up with anything,” he sighed.
“After what you’ve made us put up with I should say yes!” snorted Mr. Davidson. “But there was somebody else; we’ve got evidence. It was the other man who tried to rob Witherbee’s—the same night! You’ve been keeping bad company, young man.”
Billy glanced again at Rosalind, but her face was averted from him.
“And, Morton, I’m surprised at you,” continued Mr. Davidson. “If you really knew him, why didn’t you tell me?”
“Um—ah! But—don’t you see?—it would have been hardly sporting. Oh, not a bit!”
“And you deliberately let me go on making a fool of myself!”
The Englishman shrugged.
“And it was you who sent the customs men to look up Morton, I suppose,” added Mr. Davidson, turning again to his nephew.
“I’m sorry I did that; it was just an impulse. I only wanted to bother him some.”
Uncle Henry made an exasperated gesture.
“Well, you’re disgraced, and so am I,” he growled. “You’re a worse scapegrace than I believed. You’ve made a fool out of everybody, including Miss Chalmers, who I understand has been employing you.”
Rosalind looked up from the book and shook her head.
“Billy didn’t make a fool out of me,” she said.
The ex-boatman blinked.
“You see, I knew him from the first,” she added. “In fact, I’ve known him a good while. But—although perhaps it wasn’t very considerate of the others—I didn’t say anything because— Well, for the same reason that Mr. Morton gave. It hardly seemed sporting.”
Billy bit his tongue savagely; but he could not hide the little wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.
“What’s she up to now?” he thought.
“So I just let the joke go on. If it was wrong, I’m sorry,” concluded Rosalind.
“And you mean that you two have known each other all the time?” cried Polly, staring from one to the other.
“All the time,” confirmed Billy. “Why, I’ve known Rosalind since she was a tomboy and—and climbed trees.”
Rosalind flushed, but she nodded what was interpreted as a confirmation.
“Well,” demanded Mr. Davidson, after a pause, “what am I going to tell the police when they come?”
“Try to head ’em off,” suggested his nephew.
The master of the house accepted the suggestion and moved toward the telephone. As he lifted the instrument the bell began ringing.
“Well?” he asked, the receiver at his ear. “Yes, it’s Mr. Davidson. What? Say it again. Richardson? Who— Oh, yes. I understand—yes.
“Tried to get Witherbee? Yes, he’s here; we’re all here. Yes, Mr. Morton is here, too.
“What’s that? Well, what do you know about that?
“Huh? Sure!
“What? Yes; I’ll tell him.
“Oh, certainly! It’ll be all right. Glad you got him. Congratulations! Yeh—fine! Uh-huh! All—right!”
He replaced the instrument on the table.
“Customs men,” he explained. “They wanted to apologize for bothering Morton the other day. They’ve got their man.”
“Who?”
“Fellow that’s been smuggling diamonds. Got him with the goods only an hour ago. A chap named Schmidt.”
Rosalind and Billy exchanged swift looks.
“Why, that’s the man they thought was a spy!” cried Polly.
“Well, he wasn’t. He was just a plain smuggler.”
“But, Billy, he used to hire your boat.”
The ex-boatman made a weary motion with his hands.
“It’s getting too many for me,” he said. “He told me he was a grain-broker. A right decent sort of cuss, too.”
“So you’ve been aiding and abetting a smuggler,” remarked Mr. Davidson slowly as he glared at the boatman. “That’s fine business for a nephew of mine. What else have you been doing? Any murders or embezzlements, or anything like that? Any highway robberies? Or maybe you were a pirate—eh? Well, why don’t you answer?”
“What’s the use? You’re covering all the main points, I guess. I can’t think of anything else.”
Uncle Henry abandoned in disgust the task of cataloguing the probable misdeeds of his nephew and turned to the telephone in an effort to head off the police.
“Well, I suppose we may as well be going back,” observed Mr. Witherbee. “There doesn’t seem to be anything more to find out.”
That reminded Polly.
“But the bracelet!” she exclaimed. “Rosalind! How in the world—”
Polly broke off abruptly and looked about the room.
“Why, where is she?”
Rosalind had disappeared.