"Father's right, Tom," said his mother. "The servants are perfectly trustworthy."
"Of course they're trustworthy!" snapped Mr. Witherbee. "They're also deaf, dumb, and blind—non compos mentis and plain dotty. But they're honest. Anybody might walk in here and steal the plaster off the walls without getting caught. Yes, and for all your servants might know, steal you out of bed, madam!"
"Mercy, Stephen!" exclaimed his wife faintly. "Don't suggest such a thing!"
"We can get more batteries, father," said Gertrude soothingly.
"Batteries! Of course we can get batteries. And what's to prevent anybody from stealing the new ones?
"I tell you, the whole neighborhood's overrun with thieves. First it's us, rung out of our sleep in the middle of the night; then it's Davidson; then it's us again. Now it's his turn. After that they'll probably steal the island."
Rosalind, abandoning her study of the empty shelf, went back to the deserted breakfast-table and resumed her grapefruit.
"I had no idea," she murmured softly, "that they worked the burglar-alarm. I thought they worked the door-bell. But—I'm glad!"
Rosalind was the only person who did not finish breakfast in desultory fashion. She ate deliberately and contentedly. There were no disturbing symptoms in her conscience. She was revenged—revenged for the shock of the midnight alarm, for the flight in the darkness, for the knee that bumped itself on the chair, for the night in the boat-house, for a gown that would never be worn again; yes, for everything save the bracelet. That was adorning the arm of Gertrude this morning.
But she would be revenged for that, too, she told herself. And when Rosalind Chalmers promised herself anything, she was a patient and persistent performer.