"Couldn't you get detectives?"
"Detectives my eye! I never knew one yet that could detect anything except an expense-account. No, sir! I've sent for Billy."
"His nephew, Billy Kellogg," explained Mrs. Witherbee in a whisper to Rosalind. "The one that was sent away."
"Hated to do it, too," said Mr. Davidson. "But something had to be done. Wired down to Hastings & Hatch a little while ago to ship him up here the first thing to-morrow. Somebody's got to sit on the lid while I'm gone.
"He's learned some sense, I hear. Got a report only this morning. Sticking to his job like a nailer; that's why I hate to pull him off it. But I'll ship him back—the young rascal! I'll not spoil him again. Just as soon as I can get back from Denver, off he goes to the bank again."
"You think he'll be able to manage?" ventured Mrs. Witherbee.
She had never met Billy Kellogg in the flesh, but had heard reports.
"He'll manage or I'll break his neck," said Mr. Davidson savagely. "And I guess I won't have to do that either. Why, ma'am, he's a changed person, so Hastings & Hatch tell me. On the job at eight-thirty every morning, half an hour for lunch, sticking to it till five and six o'clock every night. A regular horse for work, ma'am! Hang it if I don't think he's earned a vacation—the scoundrel!"
Rosalind strolled away from the group as Mr. Davidson prepared to make his departure for Clayton. She wondered if the boatman would have the hardihood to show himself again in his stolen raiment.
Slow but persistent footfalls behind her warned her that she was being followed. Finally she turned and beheld Mr. Morton.