"Well, let's see if we can get the skiff loose. You want to get over to Witherbee's a soon as possible, I guess. Your gown isn't dry yet."
Rosalind nodded. She watched him as he fumbled with the padlock. She had the sensation that something extraordinary was happening to her—a sort of transmigration from one existence to another.
Her mind was not working very clearly; it groped. Through it all ran a faint and vague whisper of alarm. She wondered if she was losing her sure and steady grip on Rosalind Chalmers. It was so absurd, too; so unthinkable—so—
"Funny about Schmidt, wasn't it?" remarked Billy, still struggling with the lock. "I never had the least idea. Did you?"
She shook her head mechanically and without the least thought of the boatman's patron.
"I'm getting Uncle Henry to fix things up for Bob," he went on. "He's going to keep the banking-job. Poor devil! He's been scared stiff for the last two days. What did you think of him, anyhow?"
This time she did not hear his question at all.
The padlock came loose in his hand, and he unchained the skiff.
"All ready," he said. "I'll row."
But Rosalind did not take the hand that he reached to steady her. It was busy, unclasping the bracelet on her arm. An instant later she flung the golden treasure far out into the river.