"Oh, yes, a lot of bother," he went on aimlessly. "But we can't all do it successfully, you know. Deuced difficult not to think about anything."
Rosalind's caution was uppermost. This drawling Morton person was somewhat enigmatic. She could not tell exactly why, but she was ill at ease.
Presently he seemed to remember something, for he turned toward the river, of which the summer pavilion commanded a sweeping view, took his field-glasses from his pocket, and devoted himself to another of those surveys at which she had surprised him in the early hours. Rosalind watched in silence.
"Not a sign," he observed after a long scrutiny.
"Of what?"
"I— Oh, I beg your pardon. Did not know I had spoken—really. Nothing at all, Miss Chalmers; nothing at all."
"Do you commonly look for nothing?"
"Had me there!" he exclaimed. "I suppose one doesn't really look for nothing, even if one expects nothing. Why—I—I was just looking for a boat; that's all. Nothing of importance, I assure you."
Rosalind's thoughts reverted to Sam, her burglarious boatman. What did this man know about him? Why had he questioned her so down on the wharf?
She was framing a guarded inquiry when Polly Dawson gurgled into the pavilion.