"But I don't know what to ask."
"Heavens, Polly! There are a lot of things to find out. Who is he? What is he here for? Why did he pretend to know you? Why did Mr. Morton pretend to know him? Where is Billy Kellogg? How did a telegram to Kellogg fall into his hands? Why, he may have murdered Kellogg!"
Polly shrieked faintly.
"Of course, I don't believe he did," added Rosalind contemptuously. "That man, whoever he is, wouldn't murder a rabbit. But there's something exceedingly strange about the whole affair, and it is our business to find out what it means. Go and get him!"
"But what shall I say?" wailed Polly.
Rosalind sighed hopelessly.
"Go and ask him anything," she said. "Take him down to the summer-house to see the river—anything, I tell you! And then pump—pump—pump!"
Polly Dawson shivered, but obeyed. When it amounted to a clash of wills, Rosalind was irresistible.
The latter lady watched the couple depart in the direction of the summer-house and smiled resignedly. Polly was so literal! Had it been her own task, Rosalind would have taken him to the first available place—anywhere that was beyond ear-shot of the others. But Polly needed a sailing-chart and a compass.
Rosalind managed a meeting with Mr. Morton, but it resulted in no information, because she did not choose to acquaint that gentleman with the fact that she knew the Kellogg to be spurious. And Morton volunteered nothing. So far as the surface of him went, the meeting had not occasioned even a ripple.