The Argosy, September 1915 — page 38: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

252 find that he did anything except mess with the books.” If Rosalind was afire with curiosity she did not betray the fact. Outward- ly she maintained the frigid poise that had been the despair of the seventeen or eighteen. “ Well, from your story,’ comment- ed Mr. Witherbee, “he got to your place after he visited us.. He had hard luck here; he lost something. Who’s got the bracelet? Here, Polly! Show it to Mr. Davidson.” Polly held out her arm. “Tf he hadn’t visited us first I would have thought probably he stole it from your place,” said Witherbee. Mr. Davidson glanced at the brace- let and shook his head. “Haven't got any junk like that in our house,” he declared. ‘* Never saw it before.” Rosalind flamed with resentment, but remained silent. Junk! “We've got to organize; that’s all,” declared Witherbee. “It’s a cinch something’s got to be done,” growled Davidson. “I tell you, there’s funny goings-on around this place. Earlier last night, for instance. We were coming down the river in the yacht when somebody hailed us from a small boat. One of *em—sounded like a woman, too—wanted help. The other one—a man—didn’t want any help. Seemed to be having a row among themselves, so I didn’t butt in.” Rosalind was too bewildered to an- alyze the relation of this episode to what happened later. She merely made a mental note of the facts for future consideration. A man in overalls approached Mr. Witherbee and touched his cap. “One of the skiffs is gone, sir—the new one,” he said. “Then he did steal something, after all!” exclaimed Witherbee. “ Isn’t that the devil now? I suppose that was the skiff you ran down, Davidson.” “TI suppose so,” said Davidson -gloomily. “ Sorry.” “Oh, that’s all right. Don’t bother. THE ARGOSY. But, say, Davidson, you ought to do something for your own protection. Put in a burglar-alarm like ours, for instance.” ‘ Burglar-alarm!’ snorted David- son. “ What do I keep dogs for? And what good are the dogs, either? I threatened to shoot ’em last night. I’m not sure but I will, even yet. ‘That rascally nephew of mine spoiled those dogs. They’ve been mooning around the place ever since I shipped him off to New York. By Judas! Id bring him back if it wasn’t for the fact that I’m getting good reports about him. Witherbee, he’s actually making good! Had a letter from Hastings & Hatch only this morning. He'll be a regular banker some day, they tell me. Would you have ever thought that? ” “IT never would,” admitted Wither- bee. Rosalind wanted to slip away and think. She wanted to be undisturbed, so she might put together the pieces of the puzzle, which seemed to have been been jigsawed into hopeless confusion. _ What she wanted most to know was just where she fitted into it. If there was to be serious burglar-hunting, if . clues were being scattered about indis- criminately, she was considerably con- cerned as to where they might all lead. When Mr. Davidson had apparently - arrived at the end of his facts and was turning to comment and specula- tion she detached herself from the group and wandered off to the summer pavilion, which she had first found during the course of her exploration in the dark hours. But she was not to be left alone. Mr. Morton, -stroking his blond mus- tache, strolled in pursuit. - Funny, by Jove! Isn’t it, now?” he said. ‘ Everybody chasing some- body, you know, and nobody catch- ing anybody. I say it’s confounded strange. What’s your theory, Miss Chalmers? ” “TI never theorize,” shortly. “ Oh—ah—I see. said Rosalind fs Hum! Not a COPMICLOOOKS (©)