"Haven't got any junk like that in our house," he declared. "Never saw it before."
Rosalind flamed with resentment, but remained silent. Junk!
"We've got to organize; that's all," declared Witherbee.
"It's a cinch something's got to be done," growled Davidson. "I tell you, there's funny goings-on around this place. Earlier last night, for instance. We were coming down the river in the yacht when somebody hailed us from a small boat. One of 'em—sounded like a woman, too—wanted help. The other one—a man—didn't want any help. Seemed to be having a row among themselves, so I didn't butt in."
Rosalind was too bewildered to analyze the relation of this episode to what happened later. She merely made a mental note of the facts for future consideration.
A man in overalls approached Mr. Witherbee and touched his cap.
"One of the skiffs is gone, sir—the new one," he said.
"Then he did steal something, after all!" exclaimed Witherbee. "Isn't that the devil now? I suppose that was the skiff you ran down, Davidson."
"I suppose so," said Davidson gloomily. "Sorry."
"Oh, that's all right. Don't bother. But, say, Davidson, you ought to do something for your own protection. Put in a burglar-alarm like ours, for instance."