"It's a matter of no importance," she added hastily. "I believe you understand that I am a guest at the Witherbees'."
"Of course," he assented. "I expect you explained the whole thing to them this morning."
She looked at him narrowly, but his face was impassive behind its beard. Nevertheless, she had a disquieting feeling that he suspected she had not explained anything—and did not care to explain.
"But you were simply a plain intruder at Mr. Davidson's," Rosalind went on.
"I haven't admitted it, ma'am."
"Oh, why quibble about it?" she exclaimed.
"All right, then; we won't quibble," he answered, after a second's thought. "We'll go to it a little bit straighter. I'll say this: I did land on Mr. Davidson's island. That'll be enough for a while—except this: I wasn't working alone."
"You mean, there was somebody else who—"
"Always," remarked Sam confidentially, "when there's a house-breaking to be pulled off—that is, 'most always—a man doesn't work alone. He has to have one pal. If he does the inside work, his pal sticks around outside, doing lookout duty, and to help make the getaway. It's one of the most important parts of the job. Now, whatever I did or didn't do at Davidson's last night, the fact remained that I needed my pal a whole lot when it came to making a quick duck."
He paused and studied her, a faint twinkle in his dark eyes.