Rosalind was in a white fury. Her fingers curled around the stock of the little automatic in her pocket, although she knew quite well she would not employ the weapon. This creature called her his—pal! Called her—a Chalmers—by a vulgar name from his underworld! And she was helpless!
"You may take me back," she commanded suddenly.
"Right!"
He started the engine, swung the boat in a wide circle, and laid a course for Witherbee's Island. They had covered half of the return journey before she spoke again. Then:
"I may as well warn you that they are preparing to make a thorough hunt for the thief, and that the residents are about to organize, and probably to employ detectives."
"Thank you, ma'am."
"You may act accordingly or not, as you choose."
"It's very kind of you," he said humbly. "I'm sure you show the right spirit, ma'am. That's the way it ought to be between—"
Rosalind turned upon him.
"Don't you ever dare to employ that word to me again!"