During these days Dick Ferguson thought a good deal and said very little. Like the rest of his world he wondered over the unsolved mystery of the Janney robbery, but his wonderings contained an element of discomfort. He heard the subject discussed everywhere and often the name of Esther Maitland came up in the discussions. Not that any one ever suggested she might be involved;—it was more a sympathetic appreciation of her position. Every one spoke very feelingly about it:—poor girl, so uncomfortable for her, knowing the combination and all that sort of thing—the Janneys had stood by her splendidly, but still it was trying.

It tried him a good deal, made inroads on his temper, until it lost its sunny evenness and he was sometimes short and surly. The day after Molly and Esther went to town he had been called to a conference in the Fairfax house on the bluff. A gang of motor boat thieves had been operating along the Sound, had already stolen two launches, and the owners of water-front property had convened to decide on a course. Ferguson, with a small fleet to his credit, had taken rather a high hand, and shown an unwonted irritation at the indecision of his associates. If they wanted their boats protected it was up to them to do it, establish a shore police patrol financed by themselves. That was what he intended to do and they could join with him or not as they pleased. He left them, ruffled by his brusqueness and remarking grumpily that "Ferguson was beginning to feel his money."

He went from the meeting to his own beach and on the way met Suzanne returning with BÉbita from the morning bath. They stopped for a chat in the course of which Suzanne made a series of remarks not calculated to soothe his perturbed spirit. They were apropos of Miss Maitland, who had taken an early morning swim, all alone, refusing to wait and go in with them. Suzanne said it was a pity Miss Maitland kept so much to herself—the girl seemed depressed and out of spirits lately, didn't he think so? Quite different to what she had been earlier in the season, seemed to be troubled about something. Too bad—every one liked her so much, and people did talk so. Then with an artless smile she went off under her white parasol.

There was no smile on Ferguson's face as he walked to his boat houses. He told his men of the police patrol—to operate along the shore after nightfall—gave a few gruff orders and disappeared into a bath house. When he emerged, stripped for a swim, he stalked silently by them and dove from the end of the wharf. They were surprised at his manner, usually so genial, and wondered among themselves watching his head, sleek as a wet seal's, receding over the shining water.

The head was full of what Suzanne had said. Though he had offered no agreement to her suggestions, he had noticed the change in Esther. He had noticed it soon after the robbery, in fact before that, for it had dated from the evening when she dined at his house, the night the jewels were taken. Disturbance grew in him as he thought:—if so shallow a creature as Suzanne could see it, others could. And Suzanne had no sense, no realization of the weight of words. She might go round chattering like a fool and get the girl talked about. It would be the decent thing to give Esther a hint, put her wise to the fact that she ought to brighten up—not give any one a chance to say she was not as she had been.

As his long, muscular body slid through the water he decided to go over and have a talk with her. The decision cheered him, for to be with Esther Maitland was the keenest pleasure he knew.

Suzanne had told him she and her mother would be out that afternoon, so at three—the hour they were to leave—he set out for Grasslands by the wood path. As he crossed the garden his questing glance met an encouraging sight—Esther Maitland sitting under a group of maples at the end of the terrace. She was alone, an empty chair beside her, her head bowed over a book.

Her welcoming smile was very sweet; his eye noticed a faint color rise in her cheeks as he came up. These signs were so agreeable that he would like to have sat there, placidly enjoying her presence, but he was a person who once possessed by an idea "had to get it out of his system." This he proceeded to do, advancing on his subject with what he thought was a crafty indirectness:

"You know, Miss Maitland, you're not a credit to Long Island."

She raised her brows, deprecating, also amused:

"What have I done?"

"It's what you haven't done. We expect people to come here worn and weary and then blossom like the rose. You've gone back on the tradition."

She stretched a hand for a bundle of knitting—a soldier's muffler—on the table beside her:

"I don't feel worn or weary and I'm sorry I look so."

"Oh, you always look lovely," he hastily assured her. "I didn't mean that it wasn't becoming. But—er—er—what I wanted to say was—er—why is it?"

Miss Maitland began to knit, her face bent over the work, her dark head backed by the green distances of the lawn. Ferguson thought she had the most beautifully shaped head he had ever seen. He would like to have leaned back in his chair studying its classic outline. But he was there for a purpose and he held himself sternly to it, looking at her profile and trying to forget that it was as fine as her head.

"I don't know why it is," she answered, "but I do know that you're not very complimentary."

"If you give me a dare like that I'll show you how complimentary I can be. But I'll put that off until later. What I think is that you're worrying—that the robbery has got on your nerves."

"Why should it get on my nerves?"

He was aware of her eyes—diverted from the knitting—looking curiously at him:

"Why, it's been so—so—unpleasant, all this fuss and publicity. It's been a shock."

Her hands with the knitting dropped into her lap. She was now staring fixedly at him:

"Do you mean that I'm worrying because I think I may be suspected of it?"

He was shocked to angry repudiation.

"Good Lord, no! What a thing to say!"

She took up her work, and answered with cool composure:

"Nevertheless I have wondered if anybody ever thought it. You see I'm the only one in the house—the only one who knows the combination—who is a sort of stranger. Dixon and Isaac are like members of the family."

"Don't talk such rubbish," he protested, then leaning nearer, "Have you had that on your mind all this time? Is that what's made the change?"

She looked up at him, startled:

"Change—what change?"

"Change in you. Yes," in answer to the disturbed inquiry of her glance, "there is one. I've noticed it; other people have."

"What do you mean?"

"Why, you're different, you've lost your good spirits. You're not like you were before this happened."

Her response came with something combative in its countering quickness:

"I'm busier than I used to be. Since the robbery I've taken over a good deal of the housekeeping. Mrs. Janney has been much more upset than you guess."

"And you're so withdrawn, keep more to yourself. I used to find you about when I came over; now I almost never see you."

The interview had taken on the character of a verbal duel, he thrusting, she parrying, both earnest and insistent.

"I've just told you; I have more work, I've not the leisure I used to have."

"So busy you have to shun people?"

"That's absurd, you imagine it. I've never shunned any one and there's no reason why I should."

"I agree with you but let me ask one more question. You say your work is harder and you do look tired and worn out. Why don't you take a decent rest on your holidays? Last year you spent them here, out of doors, loafing about. Now you go to town. I've been over twice on Thursdays and when I ask for you, always hear you're in the city. And you've been at other times too—Mrs. Janney told me so. It's the most fatiguing thing you can do in this hot weather. Why do you go?"

He saw her color suddenly deepen. She had let the knitting drop to her lap and now she took it up again and began to work, very fast, the needles flashing in her white hands. She smiled as she answered:

"You seem to have kept rather a sharp look-out on me, Mr. Ferguson. Did it never occur to you that a woman might need clothes, or might want to see a friend who happened to be staying in town for the summer?"

The young man had been admiring the white hands. As she spoke something in their movements caught and held his eye—they were trembling. He was so surprised that he made no answer, his glance riveted on them trying to hold the needles steady to their task. Miss Maitland made an effort to go on, then dropped the knitting in a bunch on her knees and clasped the hands over it. Neither speaking, their eyes met. The expression of hers, furtively apprehensive like a scared child's pierced his heart and he leaned toward her, his sunburned face full of concern:

"Miss Maitland, what's wrong? Something is—tell me."

Without answering she shook her head, her lips tightly compressed. He could see that she was shaken, that the clasped hands on her knee were clenched together to control their trembling. He could see that, for a moment, taken unawares, she did not trust herself to speak.

"Look here," he said, low and urgent, "be frank with me. I've seen for some time something was troubling you—I told you so that night at my place. Why not let me lend a hand? That's what I want to do—that's what I'm for."

She had found her voice and it came with a high, light hardness, in curious contrast to the feeling in his:

"You're all wrong, Mr. Ferguson. You're seeing what doesn't exist." She started to her feet, making a grab at her knitting as it slid toward the ground. "Oh, my needle! I almost pulled it out. That would have been a calamity." She carefully pushed the stitches on to the needle as if her whole interest lay in preserving the woven fabric. "There I've picked them up, not lost one." Then she looked at them, smiling, her expression showing a veiled defiance, "You ought to have been a novelist—your imagination's wasted. Here you are seeing me as a distressed damsel, while I'm only a perfectly normal, perfectly common-place person. Romantic fiction would have been your line."

She gave a laugh that brought the blood to the young man's face, for its musical ripple contained a note of derision:

"But for my sake please curb your fancy. Don't suggest to my employers that I'm weighted down by a secret sorrow. They mightn't like a blighted being for a secretary and I might lose my job, and then I really would be worried."

He stood it unflinching, only the dark flush betraying his mortification. He assured her of his reticence and ended by asking her pardon. She granted it, even thanked him for his concern in her behalf and with a smile that was still mocking, said she had notes to write, gathered up her work, and bade him good-by.

Dick Ferguson walked back through the woods to Council Oaks. When the first discomfort of the rebuff had passed he pondered deeply. He was sure now beyond the peradventure of a doubt that Esther Maitland was in trouble of some kind, and was ready to use all the weapons at her command to keep him from finding it out.

Two nights after that he dined at Grasslands. It was just a family party, and, being such, Miss Maitland was present. She met him with the subdued quietness that he was beginning to recognize as her "social secretary manner"—the manner of the lady employee, politely colorless and self-effacing.

In the dining room, with its clustered lights along the walls, where long windows framed the deep blue night, they looked a gay and goodly party. To the unenlightened observer they might have stood for a typical group of the care-free rich, waited on by obsequious menials, feeding sumptuously in sumptuous surroundings. Yet each one of them was preyed upon by secret anxieties.

When the ladies withdrew Mr. Janney and Ferguson sat on smoking and sipping their coffee. If every member of the party had his hidden distress, Mr. Janney's was by no means the least. His problem was still unsolved, still menacing. Kissam's suggestion and his own fond hope, that the jewels would be restored had not been realized, and he was contemplating the day when he would have to face Suzanne with his knowledge. Damocles beneath the suspended sword was not more uncomfortable than he. Any allusion to the robbery made his heart sink, and, as the allusions were frequent, conversation had become a thing harkened to with held breath and sick anticipation.

Alone with Ferguson he was experiencing the usual qualms, but the young man, instead of the customary questions, asked him his opinion of Willitts, Chapman's valet, whom he thought of engaging. Mr. Janney brightened up, told Dixon to bring some of his own especial cigars, and relapsed into tranquillity. He could recommend Willitts highly, smart, capable and honest, but he thought he'd heard Dick say he couldn't stand a valet fussing about him. Dick had said it and was still of the same mind, but most of his guests were men and he needed some one to look after their clothes. They made a lot of bother, the servants had kicked, and he'd thought of Willitts.

Mr. Janney could give no information as to Willitts' whereabouts, but Dixon, entering with the cigar box and lamp, could. Willitts was at Cedar Brook where Mr. Price spent a good deal of time; he was still disengaged and looking for a position, if Mr. Ferguson would like Dixon would get word to him. Mr. Ferguson would like, and, the box presented at his elbow, he took out a cigar and held its tip to the lamp. Mr. Janney forgot Willitts and drew his guest's attention to the cigar, a special brand of rare excellence.

"We keep them in the safe," said the old man. "Only place that's secure against the damp. It was Chapman's idea—the one thing in my acquaintance with Chapman I'm grateful for."

It was an unfortunate remark, for Ferguson, leaning back in his chair with the cigar between his lips, murmured dreamily:

"The safe—do you know I've been thinking over things lately. I can't understand one point. Why didn't the thief take those jewels when the house was virtually empty instead of waiting until it was full?"

Mr. Janney's heart took a dizzying, downward dive. He had been looking forward to his smoke, now all his zest departed, his old, veined hand shaking as it felt in the box.

Ferguson went on:

"The fellow may have come in early and hidden himself—not got down to business until every one was asleep."

Mr. Janney emitted an agreeing murmur and motioned Dixon to hold the lamp nearer. As he bent toward it the young man was silent and Mr. Janney began to hope that the obnoxious subject was abandoned. He sent a side glance at his guest and the hope was strengthened. Ferguson had taken his cigar from his lips and was looking at the paper band that encircled it. He was looking at it so intently that Mr. Janney felt sure his interest was diverted and sought to drive it into safer channels.

"Pretty fine cigar, eh?" he said. "This is the first of a new lot, just come."

Ferguson drew the band off and laid it beside his plate:

"Excellent. That's a good idea—keeping them in the safe. Do you always do it?"

"Yes, it's the only thing—much better than a humidor."

"I haven't got a safe or I'd try it. Did you have any there the night of the robbery?"

Mr. Janney felt that the gods had sought him out for a special vengeance and murmured drearily:

"I believe so—a few. Dixon knows."

Dixon who was on his way to the door turned:

"Yes, sir, only one box, the last we had."

Ferguson laughed:

"If the thief had had time to try one he'd have taken the box along too."

Dixon, who treated all allusions to the subject with a tragical seriousness, said:

"I don't think he touched them, sir. The box looked just the same. Mr. Kissam was very particular to ask about it, but I told him I thought they was intact, as you might say. Though if it was the loss of one or two I couldn't be certain."

Dixon left the room and Mr. Janney looked dismally at his plate, having no spirit to fight against fate. Ferguson, with a glance at his down-drooped face, picked up the band and slipped it in his pocket.

He did not stay long after dinner. As soon as his car came he left, telling the chauffeur to hurry. At home he ran up the stairs to his room, switched on the light over the bureau and opened the box with the crystal lid. Under the studs and pins lay the band Esther had found the night he walked with her through the woods. He compared it with the one he took from his pocket and saw that they matched. The new one he threw into the fireplace, but put the other back in the box—it was something more than a souvenir. Then he sat down on the end of the sofa and thought.

Mr. Janney could not have dropped it for he had driven both to and from Council Oaks. Neither Dixon nor Isaac could have, for they had gone to the village by the main road and come back the same way at midnight. He had found it at half-past ten, untouched by the heavy shower, which had lasted from about seven till half-past eight. Therefore, whoever had thrown it there had passed that way between the time when the rain stopped and the time when Esther had found it. It had been dropped either by a man who had one of the cigars in his possession and had been on the wood path between eight-thirty and ten-thirty, or by a man who had taken a cigar from the safe between those hours.

Ferguson sat staring at the wall with his brows knit. If it had not been for the light his own gardener had seen he would have felt that he had struck the right road.