"The idiot!" fumed Rosalind. "He's been swindled!"
A moment's search within the folds of the leather resulted in the appearance of an oblong slip of paper. Glancing casually at it, Morton handed it to the boatman. The latter examined it closely, then looked up with a smile.
"I—er—think you'll find it good," drawled Morton.
"I'll take a chance," said Sam as he thrust the paper into the pocket of his shirt. "Mighty nice of you to carry this around with you. But let me give you a chunk of advice. Next time you trim a guy at bridge, either keep your mouth shut about it or don't carry the stuff around with you. You are liable to tempt some of us poker kings."
"Ah—thanks, by Jove! Not a bad idea, that. You'll not be wanting me now, I take it?"
"School's out."
The boatman rose to his feet.
The placidity of Morton was undisturbed as he stood and flecked a few patches of dust from his trousers.
"I'll be going, if you don't mind," he remarked. "My boat's at the other end of the island."
Although the affair was none of hers, Rosalind found herself angry. If there was one thing that annoyed her beyond endurance, it was sheer stupidity. She believed she had just witnessed the apotheosis of it.