"Seems like a clue, at any rate. You see—"
There was a heavy crunching on the gravel path, and the voice of Mr. Witherbee called:
"Well, Rosalind Chalmers! And at this hour of the morning. You and your trunks seem to make a specialty of mysterious arrivals."
Mr. Witherbee greeted her effusively and surveyed her from head to foot.
"Same girl, same girl," he commented admiringly. "Style—class—eh, eh, Morton? Oh, I beg your pardon! Have you met Mr. Morton?"
Miss Chalmers indicated that an introduction was unnecessary.
"I was so early, I thought I'd better wait down here for a while," she explained.
"Nonsense! Why didn't you come up at once? Ring the bell—bang on the door—do anything. We don't mind. Do we, Morton? Why, man alive, what's happened to you?"
Mr. Witherbee was regarding the white flannels with wide eyes.
"Mr. Morton dropped his glasses overboard and went to recover them," said Miss Chalmers.