Mr. Witherbee stared at the trunks in succession and juggled one of them as if to assure himself that it was real. All the time he was muttering.
"Well, this isn't finding the burglar," remarked the man with the pistol. "He's probably gone by now, anyhow. Ah-h-h—I'm sleepy."
Mr. Witherbee pondered the trunks again.
"I've got a theory," he said presently.
"Shoot."
Miss Chalmers winced, divining that this was slang.
"Why, it's like this," said Mr. Witherbee, putting down his lantern and diagraming his remarks with his cane. "There's a prowler about these islands—you know of that, of course.
"Well, Miss Chalmers sends her trunks on in advance. Some boat brings 'em down, probably after we're all in bed.
"This chap cruises around and spots the trunks. Then he comes ashore. He finds the house dark. He makes up his mind that everybody has gone away and that the trunks are waiting to be taken aboard the morning boat. So he makes a try at the house. Burglar-alarm goes off—he gets scared—runs like the Old Harry—hops into his boat—an revoir. How's that?"
"By Jove, it's wonderful!" said the tall man. "By the way, old man, are your ankles cold? Mine are."