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?"