The man on the string-piece shot a swift glance at her, then nodded confirmation.
"Huh!" said Mr. Witherbee, as he marveled at the wetness of his guest. "Just for a pair of glasses, eh? You're a queer cuss, Morton. By the way, Rosalind, did he tell you about the burglar?"
"He's just finished telling me."
"Fine note! Tell you all about it by and by. This is your grip, is it? You must come straight up to the house. Mrs. Witherbee'll be delighted."
He lifted the grip, grasped Miss Chalmers cordially by the arm, and started up the wharf. Then he stopped suddenly. A perplexed expression came into his face. Suddenly he cocked his head on one side and listened.
"Hear anything?" he asked Miss Chalmers.
She shook her head.
"I do," he affirmed. "Something clicking."
He listened again, then raised the grip and applied his ear to it. Miss Chalmers flushed.
"Please let's hurry," she said, urging him on.