“What of that?” said Crispin.
“I believe they were stealing something. I saw one of them throw a package out of the window to a man in the court-yard underneath.”
“I should like to know what you don’t see,” grumbled Crispin, not very well pleased.
Freda drew herself up.
“I ought to know all that goes on in my own house,” said she, holding her head back with a pretty little air. “And I mean to go over the place, and see that there is no way for people to get in that have no business here. And as for this yacht, it is of no use now, so what is the use of paying a lot of sailors for doing nothing.”
Crispin looked down on the floor, with rather a whimsical expression of face.
“They’re all old servants of your father’s, you know. If they’re turned off, they’re very likely to starve. As for what you thought was stealing, it was only an old salt, who has been one of the yacht’s crew for seven years, throwing down his own traps to a friend from the town who had promised to take care of them.”
“But why did he do it so mysteriously, and at night?” asked Freda, still incredulous.
But Crispin was tired of answering her questions, or else he had no reply to give, for without any more words he proceeded to light his pipe and walk away.