"But really," she ventured timidly, "I'm very sure that none of us is against you, sir. See—these are for Belgians."
She held up a half-finished sock.
The man who sounded the warning did not look at it. He gave a sharp command and the boat with the British ensign snorted off across the river.
"I think we will go home now," observed Rosalind.
Without a word Sam started his engine.
It was a silent party that returned to Witherbee's Island. Rosalind was glad it was so. The affair was at once too big with possibilities and too nebulous as to facts for idle gossip.
To the best of her knowledge she had never seen a spy. She wondered if she were really looking at one now. He did not look like one.
Nor, for that matter, did Morton, who might well be expected to display interest at the very least if it were true that Sam and the Schmidt man were making voyages into Canadian ports that might end in nooses.
First a common thief, next a smuggler—now a spy! Rosalind found pleasurable excitement in her thoughts. Gertrude Witherbee was on the wharf when the launch came in. She was waving a yellow envelope at Rosalind.
"Telegram for you!" she called.