"That's just to make sure," she murmured. "I suppose there will be more later."
After that she sat passively by the window for fifteen minutes, appearing to watch the tennis-players, yet devoting her complete attention to her thoughts.
Smuggling, of course, was not so bad as burglary, she reflected. Lots of excellent people smuggled—not in a really vicious way, and not with the least hint of sinister intent; it was just a sort of sporting proposition. They did not smuggle for a living, or even for incidental profit; they were not professionals.
She knew a lot of perfectly amiable, well-bred, and charming smugglers, who smuggled a trifle now and then for the excitement of beating the game. There was herself, for instance.
But professional smuggling was different, she told herself severely. And when it was coupled with burglary, it assumed a serious aspect. She would not permit herself to be lenient in this. Yet she was intensely curious.
If Sam was a smuggler as well as a burglar, who was H. Evelyn Morton? What did Sam know about Morton, and what did the Englishman know about Sam?
Of course, it was natural for Sam to attempt to divert suspicion from himself. But why throw it upon Morton?
"If it wasn't for the smuggling part I think I could understand," mused Rosalind. "If Mr. Morton won all this money from Mr. Davidson's nephew, I suppose it has been a matter of some talk. Probably this boatman has learned of the fact, and is merely waiting for an opportunity to rob Mr. Morton. And Mr. Morton probably has his suspicions, and is keeping a watch upon Sam for his own protection. That's perfectly reasonable.
"But, then, why should Sam try to get Mr. Morton into trouble, and probably thereby spoil his own chance of robbing him? I can't understand that, unless he is incredibly stupid. And—he isn't stupid."
At the end of her fifteen-minute study Rosalind made a resolution and went down-stairs to see about executing it. She contrived, with no great expenditure of effort, to detach Mr. Morton from his tennis.