Mr. Cooke had had a sloop yacht built at Far Harbor, the completion of which had been delayed, and which was but just delivered. She was, painted white, with brass fittings, and under her stern, in big, black letters, was the word Maria, intended as a surprise and delicate conjugal compliment to Mrs. Cooke. The Maria had a cabin, which was finished in hard wood and yellow plush, and accommodations for keeping things cold. This last Mr. Cooke had insisted upon.
The skipper Mr. Cooke had hired at Far Harbor was a God-fearing man with a luke warm interest in his new billet and employer, and had only been prevailed upon to take charge of the yacht for the month after the offer of an emolument equal to half a year's sea pay of an ensign in the navy. His son and helper was to receive a sum proportionally exorbitant. This worthy man sighted Mohair on a Sunday morning, and at nine o'clock dropped his anchor with a salute which caused Mr. Cooke to say unpleasant things in his sleep. After making things ship-shape and hoisting the jack, both father and son rowed ashore to the little church at Asquith.
Now the butler at Mohair was a servant who had learned, from long experience, to anticipate every wish and whim of his master, and from the moment he descried the white sails of the yacht out of the windows of the butler's pantry his duty was clear as daylight. Such was the comprehension and despatch with which he gave his commands that the captain returned from divine worship to find the Maria in profane hands, her immaculate deck littered with straw and sawdust, and covered to the coamings with bottles and cases. This decided the captain, he packed his kit in high dudgeon, and took the first train back to Far Harbor, leaving the yacht to her fate.
This sudden and inconsiderate departure was a severe blow to Mr. Cooke' who was so constituted that he cared but little about anything until there was danger of not getting it. My client had planned a trip to Bear Island for the following Tuesday, which was to last a week, the party to bring tents with them and rough it, with the Maria as headquarters. It was out of the question to send to Far Harbor for another skipper, if, indeed, one could be found at that late period. And as luck would have it, six of Mr. Cooke's ten guests had left but a day or so since, and among them had been the only yacht-owner. None of the four that remained could do more than haul aft and belay a sheet. But the Celebrity, who chanced along as Mr. Cooke was ruefully gazing at the graceful lines of the Maria from the wharf and cursing the fate that kept him ashore with a stiff wind blowing, proposed a way out of the difficulty. He, the Celebrity, would gladly sail the Maria over to Bear Island provided another man could be found to relieve him occasionally at the wheel, and the like. He had noticed that Farrar was a capable hand in a boat, and suggested that he be sent for.
This suggestion Mr. Cooke thought so well of that he hurried over to Asquith to consult Farrar at once, and incidentally to consult me. We can hardly be blamed for receiving his overtures with a moderate enthusiasm. In fact, we were of one mind not to go when the subject was first broached. But my client had a persuasive way about him that was irresistible, and the mere mention of the favors he had conferred upon both of us at different periods of our lives was sufficient. We consented.
Thus it came to pass that Tuesday morning found the party assembled on the wharf at Mohair, the Four and the Celebrity, as well as Mr. Cooke, having produced yachting suits from their inexhaustible wardrobes. Mr. Trevor and his daughter, Mrs. Cooke and Miss Thorn, and Farrar and myself completed the party. We were to adhere strictly to primeval principles: the ladies were not permitted a maid, while the Celebrity was forced to leave his manservant, and Mr. Cooke his chef. I had, however, thrust into my pocket the Minneapolis papers, which had been handed me by the clerk on their arrival at the inn, which happened just as I was leaving. 'Quod bene notandum!'
Thereby hangs a tale!
For the northern lakes the day was rather dead: a little wind lay in the southeast, scarcely enough to break the water, with the sky an intense blue. But the Maria was hardly cast and under way before it became painfully apparent that the Celebrity was much better fitted to lead a cotillon than to sail a boat. He gave his orders, nevertheless, in a firm, seamanlike fashion, though with no great pertinence, and thus managed to establish the confidence of Mr. Cooke. Farrar, after setting things to rights, joined Mrs. Cooke and me over the cabin.
“How about hoisting the spinnaker, mate?” the Celebrity shouted after him.
Farrar did not deign to answer: his eye was on the wind. And the boom, which had been acting uneasily, finally decided to gybe, and swept majestically over, carrying two of the Four in front of it, and all but dropped them into the water.
“A common occurrence in a light breeze,” we heard the Celebrity reassure Mr. Cooke and Miss Thorn.
“The Maria has vindicated her sex,” remarked Farrar.
We laughed.
“Why don't you sail, Mr. Farrar?” asked Mrs. Cooke.
“He can't do any harm in this breeze,” Farrar replied; “it isn't strong enough to get anywhere with.”
He was right. The boom gybed twenty times that morning, and the Celebrity offered an equal number of apologies. Mr. Cooke and the Four vanished, and from the uproarious laughter which arose from the cabin transoms I judged they were telling stories. While Miss Thorn spent the time profitably in learning how to conn a yacht. At one, when we had luncheon, Mohair was still in the distance. At two it began to cloud over, the wind fell flat, and an ominous black bank came up from the south. Without more ado, Farrar, calling on me to give him a hand, eased down the halliards and began to close reef the mainsail.
“Hold on,” said the Celebrity, “who told you to do that?”
“I am very sure you didn't,” Farrar returned, as he hauled out a reef earing.
Here a few drops of rain on the deck warned the ladies to retire to the cabin.
“Take the helm until I get my mackintosh, will you, Farrar?” said the Celebrity, “and be careful what you do.”
Farrar took the helm and hauled in the sheet, while the Celebrity, Mr. Cooke, and the guests donned their rain-clothes. The water ahead was now like blue velvet, and the rain pelting. The Maria was heeling to the squall by the time the Celebrity appeared at the cabin door, enveloped in an ample waterproof, a rubber cover on his yachting cap. A fool despises a danger he has never experienced, and our author, with a remark about a spanking breeze, made a motion to take the wheel. But Farrar, the flannel of his shirt clinging to the muscular outline of his shoulders, gave him a push which sent him sprawling against the lee refrigerator. Well Miss Thorn was not there to see.
“You will have to answer for this,” he cried, as he scrambled to his feet and clutched the weather wash-board with one hand, while he shook the other in Farrar's face.
“Crocker,” said Farrar to me, coolly, “keep that idiot out of the way for a while, or we'll all be drowned. Tie him up, if necessary.”
I was relieved from this somewhat unpleasant task. Mr. Cooke, with his back to the rain, sat an amused witness to the mutiny, as blissfully ignorant as the Celebrity of the character of a lake squall.
“I appeal to you, as the owner of this yacht, Mr. Cooke,” the Celebrity shouted, “whether, as the person delegated by you to take charge of it, I am to suffer indignity and insult. I have sailed larger yachts than this time and again on the coast, at—” here he swallowed a portion of a wave and was mercifully prevented from being specific.
But Mr. Cooke was looking a trifle bewildered. It was hardly possible for him to cling to the refrigerator, much less quell a mutiny. One who has sailed the lakes well knows how rapidly they can be lashed to fury by a storm, and the wind was now spinning the tops of the waves into a blinding spray. Although the Maria proved a stiff boat and a seaworthy, she was not altogether without motion; and the set expression on Farrar's face would have told me, had I not known it, that our situation at that moment was no joke. Repeatedly, as she was held up to it, a precocious roller would sweep from bow to stern, until we without coats were wet and shivering.
The close and crowded cabin of a small yacht is not an attractive place in rough weather; and one by one the Four emerged and distributed themselves about the deck, wherever they could obtain a hold. Some of them began to act peculiarly. Upon Mr. Cooke's unwillingness or inability to interfere in his behalf, the Celebrity had assumed an aggrieved demeanor, but soon the motion of the Maria became more and more pronounced, and the difficulty of maintaining his decorum likewise increased. The ruddy color left his face, which grew pale with effort. I will do him the justice to say that the effort was heroic: he whistled popular airs, and snatches of the grand opera; he relieved Mr. Cooke of his glasses (of which Mr. Cooke had neglected to relieve himself), and scanned the sea line busily. But the inevitable deferred is frequently more violent than the inevitable taken gracefully, and the confusion which at length overtook the Celebrity was utter as his humiliation was complete. We laid him beside Mr. Cooke in the cockpit.
The rain presently ceased, and the wind hauled, as is often the case, to the northwest, which began to clear, while Bear Island rose from the northern horizon. Both Farrar and I were surprised to see Miss Trevor come out; she hooked back the cabin doors and surveyed the prostrate forms with amusement.
We asked her about those inside.
“Mrs. Cooke has really been very ill,” she said, “and Miss Thorn is doing all she can for her. My father and I were more fortunate. But you will both catch your deaths,” she exclaimed, noticing our condition. “Tell me where I can find your coats.”
I suppose it is natural for a man to enjoy being looked after in this way; it was certainly a new sensation to Farrar and myself. We assured her we were drying out and did not need the coats, but nevertheless she went back into the cabin and found them.
“Miss Thorn says you should both be whipped,” she remarked.
When we had put on our coats Miss Trevor sat down and began to talk.
“I once heard of a man,” she began complacently, “a man that was buried alive, and who contrived to dig himself up and then read his own epitaph. It did not please him, but he was wise and amended his life. I have often thought how much it might help some people if they could read their own epitaphs.”
Farrar was very quick at this sort of thing; and now that the steering had become easier was only too glad to join her in worrying the Celebrity. But he, if he were conscious, gave no sign of it.
“They ought to be buried so that they could not dig themselves up,” he said. “The epitaphs would only strengthen their belief that they had lived in an unappreciative age.”
“One I happen to have in mind, however, lives in an appreciative age. Most appreciative.”
“And women are often epitaph-makers.”
“You are hard on the sex, Mr. Farrar,” she answered, “but perhaps justly so. And yet there are some women I know of who would not write an epitaph to his taste.”
Farrar looked at her curiously.
“I beg your pardon,” he said.
“Do not imagine I am touchy on the subject,” she replied quickly; “some of us are fortunate enough to have had our eyes opened.”
I thought the Celebrity stirred uneasily.
“Have you read The Sybarites?” she asked.
Farrar was puzzled.
“No,” said he sententiously, “and I don't want to.”
“I know the average man thinks it a disgrace to have read it. And you may not believe me when I say that it is a strong story of its kind, with a strong moral. There are men who might read that book and be a great deal better for it. And, if they took the moral to heart, it would prove every bit as effectual as their own epitaphs.”
He was not quite sure of her drift, but he perceived that she was still making fun of Mr. Allen.
“And the moral?” he inquired.
“Well,” she said, “the best I can do is to give you a synopsis of the story, and then you can judge of its fitness. The hero is called Victor Desmond. He is a young man of a sterling though undeveloped character, who has been hampered by an indulgent parent with a large fortune. Desmond is a butterfly, and sips life after the approved manner of his kind,—now from Bohemian glass, now from vessels of gold and silver. He chats with stage lights in their dressing-rooms, and attends a ball in the Bowery or a supper at Sherry's with a ready versatility. The book, apart from its intention, really gives the middle classes an excellent idea of what is called 'high-life.'
“It is some time before Desmond discovers that he possesses the gift of Paris,—a deliberation proving his lack of conceit,—that wherever he goes he unwittingly breaks a heart, and sometimes two or three. This discovery is naturally so painful that he comes home to his chambers and throws himself on a lounge before his fire in a fit of self-deprecation, and reflects on a misspent and foolish life. This, mind you, is where his character starts to develop. And he makes a heroic resolve, not to cut off his nose or to grow a beard, nor get married, but henceforth to live a life of usefulness and seclusion, which was certainly considerate. And furthermore, if by any accident he ever again involved the affections of another girl he would marry her, be she as ugly as sin or as poor as poverty. Then the heroine comes in. Her name is Rosamond, which sounds well and may be euphoniously coupled with Desmond; and, with the single exception of a boarding-school girl, she is the only young woman he ever thought of twice. In order to save her and himself he goes away, but the temptation to write to her overpowers him, and of course she answers his letter. This brings on a correspondence. His letters take the form of confessions, and are the fruits of much philosophical reflection. 'Inconstancy in woman,' he says, because of the present social conditions, is often pardonable. In a man, nothing is more despicable.' This is his cardinal principle, and he sticks to it nobly. For, though he tires of Rosamond, who is quite attractive, however, he marries her and lives a life of self-denial. There are men who might take that story to heart.”
I was amused that she should give the passage quoted by the Celebrity himself. Her double meaning was, naturally, lost on Farrar, but he enjoyed the thing hugely, nevertheless, as more or less applicable to Mr. Allen. I made sure that gentleman was sensible of what was being said, though he scarcely moved a muscle. And Miss Trevor, with a mirthful glance at me that was not without a tinge of triumph, jumped lightly to the deck and went in to see the invalids.
We were now working up into the lee of the island, whose tall pines stood clean and black against the red glow of the evening sky. Mr. Cooke began to give evidences of life, and finally got up and overhauled one of the ice-chests for a restorative. Farrar put into the little cove, where we dropped anchor, and soon had the chief sufferers ashore; and a delicate supper, in the preparation of which Miss Thorn showed her ability as a cook, soon restored them. For my part, I much preferred Miss Thorn's dishes to those of the Mohair chef, and so did Farrar. And the Four, surprising as it may seem, made themselves generally useful about the camp in pitching the tents under Farrar's supervision. But the Celebrity remained apart and silent.
Our first, night in the Bear Island camp passed without incident, and we all slept profoundly, tired out by the labors of the day before. After breakfast, the Four set out to explore, with trout-rods and shot-guns. Bear Island is, with the exception of the cove into which we had put, as nearly round as an island can be, and perhaps three miles in diameter. It has two clear brooks which, owing to the comparative inaccessibility of the place, still contain trout and grayling, though there are few spots where a fly can be cast on account of the dense underbrush. The woods contain partridge, or ruffed grouse, and other game in smaller quantities. I believe my client entertained some notion of establishing a preserve here.
The insults which had been heaped upon the Celebrity on the yacht seemed to have raised rather than lowered him in Miss Thorn's esteem, for these two ensconced themselves among the pines above the camp with an edition de luxe of one of his works which she had brought along. They were soon absorbed in one of those famous short stories of his with the ending left open to discussion. Mr. Cooke was indisposed. He had not yet recovered from the shaking up his system had sustained, and he took to a canvas easy chair he had brought with him and placed a decanter of Scotch and a tumbler of ice at his side. The efficacy of this remedy was assured. And he demanded the bunch of newspapers he spied protruding from my pocket.
The rest of us were engaged in various occupations: Mr. Trevor relating experiences of steamboat days on the Ohio to Mrs. Cooke; Miss Trevor buried in a serial in the Century; and Farrar and I taking an inventory of fishing-tackle, when we were startled by a loud and profane ejaculation. Mr. Cooke had hastily put down his glass and was staring at the newspaper before him with eyes as large as after-dinner coffee-cups.
“Come here,” he shouted over at us. “Come here, Crocker,” he repeated, seeing we were slow to move. “For God's sake, come here!”
In obedience to this emphatic summons I crossed the stream and drew near to Mr. Cooke, who was busily pouring out another glass of whiskey to tide him over this strange excitement. But, as Mr. Cooke was easily excited and on such occasions always drank whiskey to quiet his nerves, I thought nothing of it. He was sitting bolt upright and held out the paper to me with a shaking hand, while he pointed to some headlines on the first page. And this is what I read:
TREASURER TAKES A TRIP.CHARLES WREXELL ALLEN, OF THE MILES STANDISHBICYCLE COMPANY, GETS OFF WITH 100,000 DOLLARS.DETECTIVES BAFFLED.THE ABSCONDER A BACK BAY SOCIAL LEADER.
Half way down the column was a picture of Mr. Allen, a cut made from a photograph, and, allowing for the crudities of newspaper reproduction, it was a striking likeness of the Celebrity. Underneath was a short description. Mr. Allen was five feet eleven (the Celebrity's height), had a straight nose, square chin, dark hair and eyes, broad shoulders, was dressed elaborately; in brief, tallied in every particular with the Celebrity with the exception of the slight scar which Allen was thought to have on his forehead.
The situation and all its ludicrous possibilities came over me with a jump. It was too good to be true. Had Mr. Charles Wrexell Allen arrived at Asquith and created a sensation with the man who stole his name I should have been amply satisfied. But that Mr. Allen had been obliging enough to abscond with a large sum of money was beyond dreaming!
I glanced at the rest of it: a history of the well-established company followed, with all that Mr. Allen had done for it. The picture, by the way, had been obtained from the St. Paul agent of the bicycle. After doing due credit to the treasurer's abilities as a hustler there followed a summary of his character, hitherto without reproach; but his tastes were expensive ones. Mr. Allen's tendency to extravagance had been noticed by the members of the Miles Standish Company, and some of the older directors had on occasions remonstrated with him. But he had been too valuable a man to let go, and it seems as treasurer he was trusted implicitly. He was said to have more clothes than any man in Boston.
I am used to thinking quickly, and by the time I had read this I had an idea.
“What in hell do you make of that, Crocker?” cried my client, eyeing me closely and repeating the question again and again, as was his wont when agitated.
“It is certainly plain enough,” I replied, “but I should like to talk to you before you decide to hand him over to the authorities.”
I thought I knew Mr. Cooke, and I was not mistaken.
“Authorities!” he roared. “Damn the authorities! There's my yacht, and there's the Canadian border.” And he pointed to the north.
The others were pressing around us by this time, and had caught the significant words which Mr. Cooke had uttered. I imagine that if my client had stopped to think twice, which of course is a preposterous condition, he would have confided his discovery only to Farrar and to me. It was now out of the question to keep it from the rest of the party, and Mr. Trevor got the headlines over my shoulder. I handed him the sheet.
“Read it, Mr. Trevor,” said Mrs. Cooke.
Mr. Trevor, in a somewhat unsteady voice, read the headlines and began the column, and they followed breathless with astonishment and agitation. Once or twice the senator paused to frown upon the Celebrity with a terrible sternness, thus directing all other eyes to him. His demeanor was a study in itself. It may be surmised, from what I have said of him, that there was a strain of the actor in his composition; and I am prepared to make an affidavit that, secure in the knowledge that he had witnesses present to attest his identity, he hugely enjoyed the sensation he was creating. That he looked forward with a profound pleasure to the stir which the disclosure that he was the author of The Sybarites would make. His face wore a beatific smile.
As Mr. Trevor continued, his voice became firmer and his manner more majestic. It was a task distinctly to his taste, and one might have thought he was reading the sentence of a Hastings. I was standing next to his daughter. The look of astonishment, perhaps of horror, which I had seen on her face when her father first began to read had now faded into something akin to wickedness. Did she wink? I can't say, never before having had a young woman wink at me. But the next moment her vinaigrette was rolling down the bank towards the brook, and I was after it. I heard her close behind me. She must have read my intentions by a kind of mental telepathy.
“Are you going to do it?” she whispered.
“Of course,” I answered. “To miss such a chance would be a downright sin.”
There was a little awe in her laugh.
“Miss Thorn is the only obstacle,” I added, “and Mr. Cooke is our hope. I think he will go by me.”
“Don't let Miss Thorn worry you,” she said as we climbed back.
“What do you mean?” I demanded. But she only shook her head. We were at the top again, and Mr. Trevor was reading an appended despatch from Buffalo, stating that Mr. Allen had been recognized there, in the latter part of June, walking up and down the platform of the station, in a smoking-jacket, and that he had climbed on the Chicago limited as it pulled out. This may have caused the Celebrity to feel a trifle uncomfortable.
“Ha!” exclaimed Mr. Trevor, as he put down the paper. “Mr. Cooke, do you happen to have any handcuffs on the Maria?”
But my client was pouring out a stiff helping from the decanter, which he still held in his hand. Then he approached the Celebrity.
“Don't let it worry you, old man,” said he, with intense earnestness. “Don't let it worry you. You're my guest, and I'll see you safe out of it, or bust.”
“Fenelon,” said Mrs. Cooke, gravely, “do you realize what you are saying?”
“You're a clever one, Allen,” my client continued, and he backed away the better to look him over; “you had nerve to stay as long as you did.”
The Celebrity laughed confidently.
“Cooke,” he replied, “I appreciate your generosity,—I really do. I know no offence is meant. The mistake is, in fact, most pardonable.”
In Mr. Cooke amazement and admiration were clamoring for utterance.
“Damn me,” he sputtered, “if you're not the coolest embezzler I ever saw.”
The Celebrity laughed again. Then he surveyed the circle.
“My friends,” he said, “this is certainly a most amazing coincidence; one which, I assure you, surprises me no less than it does you. You have no doubt remarked that I have my peculiarities. We all have.
“I flatter thyself I am not entirely unknown. And the annoyances imposed upon me by a certain fame I have achieved had become such that some months ago I began to crave the pleasures of the life of a private man. I determined to go to some sequestered resort where my face was unfamiliar. The possibility of being recognized at Asquith did not occur to me. Fortunately I was. And a singular chance led me to take the name of the man who has committed this crime, and who has the misfortune to resemble me. I suppose that now,” he added impressively, “I shall have to tell you who I am.”
He paused until these words should have gained their full effect. Then he held up the edition de luxe from which he and Miss Thorn had been reading.
“You may have heard, Mrs. Cooke,” said he, addressing himself to our hostess, “you may perhaps have heard of the author of this book.”
Mrs. Cooke was a calm woman, and she read the name on the cover.
“Yes,” she said, “I have. And you claim to be he?”
“Ask my friend Crocker here,” he answered carelessly, no doubt exulting that the scene was going off so dramatically. “I should indeed be in a tight box,” he went on, “if there were not friends of mine here to help me out.”
They turned to me.
“I am afraid I cannot,” I said with what soberness I could.
“What!” says he with a start. “What! you deny me?”
Miss Trevor had her tongue in her cheek. I bowed.
“I am powerless to speak, Mr. Allen,” I replied.
During this colloquy my client stood between us, looking from one to the other. I well knew that his way of thinking would be with my testimony, and that the gilt name on the edition de luxe had done little towards convincing him of Mr. Allen's innocence. To his mind there was nothing horrible or incongruous in the idea that a well-known author should be a defaulter. It was perfectly possible. He shoved the glass of Scotch towards the Celebrity, with a smile.
“Take this, old man,” he kindly insisted, “and you'll feel better. What's the use of bucking when you're saddled with a thing like that?” And he pointed to the paper. “Besides, they haven't caught you yet, by a damned sight.”
The Celebrity waved aside the proffered tumbler.
“This is an infamous charge, and you know it, Crocker,” he cried. “If you don't, you ought to, as a lawyer. This isn't any time to have fun with a fellow.”
“My dear sir,” I said, “I have charged you with nothing whatever.”
He turned his back on me in complete disgust. And he came face to face with Miss Trevor.
“Miss Trevor, too, knows something of me,” he said.
“You forget, Mr. Allen,” she answered sweetly, “you forget that I have given you my promise not to reveal what I know.”
The Celebrity chafed, for this was as damaging a statement as could well be uttered against him. But Miss Thorn was his trump card, and she now came forward.
“This is ridiculous, Mr. Crocker, simply ridiculous,” said she.
“I agree with you most heartily, Miss Thorn,” I replied.
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Miss Thorn, and she drew her lips together, “pure nonsense!”
“Nonsense or not, Marian,” Mr. Cooke interposed, “we are wasting valuable time. The police are already on the scent, I'll bet my hat.”
“Fenelon!” Mrs. Cooke remonstrated.
“And do you mean to say in soberness, Uncle Fenelon, that you believe the author of The Sybarites to be a defaulter?” said Miss Thorn.
“It is indeed hard to believe Mr. Allen a criminal,” Mr. Trevor broke in for the first time. “I think it only right that he should be allowed to clear himself before he is put to further inconvenience, and perhaps injustice, by any action we may take in the matter.”
Mr. Cooke sniffed suspiciously at the word “action.”
“What action do you mean?” he demanded.
“Well,” replied Mr. Trevor, with some hesitation, “before we take any steps, that is, notify the police.”
“Notify the police!” cried my client, his face red with a generous anger. “I have never yet turned a guest over to the police,” he said proudly, “and won't, not if I know it. I'm not that kind.”
Who shall criticise Mr. Cooke's code of morality?
“Fenelon,” said his wife, “you must remember you have never yet entertained a guest of a larcenous character. No embezzlers up to the present. Marian,” she continued, turning to Miss Thorn, “you spoke as if you might, be able to throw some light upon this matter. Do you know whether this gentleman is Charles Wrexell Allen, or whether he is the author? In short, do you know who he is?”
The Celebrity lighted a cigarette. Miss Thorn said indignantly, “Upon my word, Aunt Maria, I thought that you, at least, would know better than to credit this silly accusation. He has been a guest at your house, and I am astonished that you should doubt his word.”
Mrs. Cooke looked at her niece perplexedly.
“You must remember, Marian,” she said gently, “that I know nothing about him, where he came from, or who he is. Nor does any one at Asquith, except perhaps Miss Trevor, by her own confession. And you do not seem inclined to tell what you know, if indeed you know anything.”
Upon this Miss Thorn became more indignant still, and Mrs. Cooke went on “Gentlemen, as a rule, do not assume names, especially other people's. They are usually proud of their own. Mr. Allen appears among us, from the clouds, as it were, and in due time we learn from a newspaper that he has committed a defalcation. And, furthermore, the paper contains a portrait and an accurate description which put the thing beyond doubt. I ask you, is it reasonable for him to state coolly after all this that he is another man? That he is a well-known author? It's an absurdity. I was not born yesterday, my dear.”
“It is most reasonable under the circumstances,” replied Miss Thorn, warmly. “Extraordinary? Of course it's extraordinary. And too long to explain to a prejudiced audience, who can't be expected to comprehend the character of a genius, to understand the yearning of a famous man for a little quiet.”
Mrs. Cooke looked grave.
“Marian, you forget yourself,” she said.
“Oh, I am tired of it, Aunt Maria,” cried Miss Thorn; “if he takes my advice, he will refuse to discuss it farther.”
She did not seem to be aware that she had put forth no argument whatever, save a woman's argument. And I was intensely surprised that her indignation should have got the better of her in this way, having always supposed her clear-headed in the extreme. A few words from her, such as I supposed she would have spoken, had set the Celebrity right with all except Mr. Cooke. To me it was a clear proof that the Celebrity had turned her head, and her mind with it.
The silence was broken by an uncontrollable burst of laughter from Miss Trevor. She was quickly frowned down by her father, who reminded her that this was not a comedy.
“And, Mr. Allen,” he said, “if you have anything to say, or any evidence to bring forward, now is the time to do it.”
He appeared to forget that I was the district attorney.
The Celebrity had seated himself on the trunk of a tree, and was blowing out the smoke in clouds. He was inclined to take Miss Thorn's advice, for he made a gesture of weariness with his cigarette, in the use of which he was singularly eloquent.
“Tell me, Mr. Trevor,” said he, “why I should sit before you as a tribunal? Why I should take the trouble to clear myself of a senseless charge? My respect for you inclines me to the belief that you are laboring under a momentary excitement; for when you reflect that I am a prominent, not to say famous, author, you will realize how absurd it is that I should be an embezzler, and why I decline to lower myself by an explanation.”
Mr. Trevor picked up the paper and struck it.
“Do you refuse to say anything in the face of such evidence as that?” he cried.
“It is not a matter for refusal, Mr. Trevor. It is simply that I cannot admit the possibility of having committed the crime.”
“Well, sir,” said the senator, his black necktie working out of place as his anger got the better of him, “I am to believe, then, because you claim to be the author of a few society novels, that you are infallible? Let me tell you that the President of the United States himself is liable to impeachment, and bound to disprove any charge he may be accused of. What in Halifax do I care for your divine-right-of-authors theory? I'll continue to think you guilty until you are shown to be innocent.”
Suddenly the full significance of the Celebrity's tactics struck Mr. Cooke, and he reached out and caught hold of Mr. Trevor's coattails. “Hold on, old man,” said he; “Allen isn't going to be ass enough to own up to it. Don't you see we'd all be jugged and fined for assisting a criminal over the border? It's out of consideration for us.”
Mr. Trevor looked sternly over his shoulder at Mr. Cooke.
“Do you mean to say, sir, seriously,” he asked, “that, for the sake of a misplaced friendship for this man, and a misplaced sense of honor, you are bound to shield a guest, though a criminal? That you intend to assist him to escape from justice? I insist, for my own protection and that of my daughter, as well as for that of the others present that, since he refuses to speak, we must presume him guilty and turn him over.”
Mr. Trevor turned to Mrs. Cooke, as if relying on her support.
“Fenelon,” said she, “I have never sought to influence your actions when your friends were concerned, and I shall not begin now. All I ask of you is to consider the consequences of your intention.”
These words from Mrs. Cooke had much more weight with my client than Mr. Trevor's blustering demands.
“Maria, my dear,” he said, with a deferential urbanity, “Mr. Allen is my guest, and a gentleman. When a gentleman gives his word that he is not a criminal, it is sufficient.”
The force of this, for some reason, did not overwhelm his wife; and her lip curled a little, half in contempt, half in risibility.
“Pshaw, Fenelon,” said she, “what a fraud you are. Why is it you wish to get Mr. Allen over the border, then?” A question which might well have staggered a worthier intellect.
“Why, my dear,” answered my client, “I wish to save Mr. Allen the inconvenience, not to say the humiliation, of being brought East in custody and strapped with a pair of handcuffs. Let him take a shooting trip to the great Northwest until the real criminal is caught.”
“Well, Fenelon,” replied Mrs. Cooke, unable to repress a smile, “one might as well try to argue with a turn-stile or a weather-vane. I wash my hands of it.”
But Mr. Trevor, who was both a self-made man and a Western politician, was far from being satisfied. He turned to me with a sweep of the arm he had doubtless learned in the Ohio State Senate.
“Mr. Crocker,” he cried, “are you, as attorney of this district, going to aid and abet in the escape of a fugitive from justice?”
“Mr. Trevor,” said I, “I will take the course in this matter which seems fit to me, and without advice from any one.”
He wheeled on Farrar, repeated the question, and got a like answer.
Brought to bay for a time, he glared savagely around him while groping for further arguments.
But at this point the Four appeared on the scene, much the worse for thickets, and clamoring for luncheon. They had five small fish between them which they wanted Miss Thorn to cook.
The Four received Mr. Cooke's plan for the Celebrity's escape to Canada with enthusiastic acclamation, and as the one thing lacking to make the Bear Island trip a complete success. The Celebrity was hailed with the reverence due to the man who puts up the ring-money in a prize-fight. He was accorded, too, a certain amount of respect as a defaulter, which the Four would have denied him as an author, for I am inclined to the belief that the discovery of his literary profession would have lowered him rather than otherwise in their eyes. My client was naturally anxious to get under way at once for the Canadian border, but was overruled in this by his henchmen, who demanded something to eat. We sat down to an impromptu meal, which was an odd affair indeed. Mrs. Cooke maintained her usual serenity, but said little, while Miss Trevor and I had many a mirthful encounter at the thought of the turn matters had taken.
At the other end of the cloth were Mr. Cooke and the Four, in wonderful spirits and unimpaired appetite, and in their midst sat the Celebrity, likewise in wonderful spirits. His behavior now and again elicited a loud grunt of disapproval from Mr. Trevor, who was plying his knife and fork in a manner emblematic of his state of mind. Mr. Allen was laughing and joking airily with Mr. Cooke and the guests, denying, but not resenting, their accusations with all the sang froid of a hardened criminal. He did not care particularly to go to Canada, he said. Why should he, when he was innocent? But, if Mr. Cooke insisted, he would enjoy seeing that part of the lake and the Canadian side.
Afterwards I perceived Miss Thorn down by the brookside, washing dishes. Her sleeves were drawn back to the elbow, and a dainty white apron covered her blue skirt, while the wind from the lake had disentangled errant wisps of her hair. I stood on the brink above, secure, as I thought, from observation, when she chanced to look up and spied me.
“Mr. Crocker,” she called, “would you like to make yourself useful?”
I was decidedly embarrassed. Her manner was as frank and unconstrained as though I had not been shunning her for weeks past.
“If such a thing is possible,” I replied.
“Do you know a dish-cloth when you see one?”
I was doubtful. But I procured the cloth from Miss Trevor and returned. There was an air about Miss Thorn that was new to me.
“What an uncompromising man you are, Mr. Crocker,” she said to me. “Once a person is unfortunate enough to come under the ban of your disapproval you have nothing whatever to do with them. Now it seems that I have given you offence in some way. Is it not so?”
“You magnify my importance,” I said.
“No temporizing, Mr. Crocker,” she went on, as though she meant to be obeyed; “sit down there, and let's have it out. I like you too well to quarrel with you.”
There was no resisting such a command, and I threw myself on the pebbles at her feet.
“I thought we were going to be great friends,” she said. “You and Mr. Farrar were so kind to me on the night of my arrival, and we had such fun watching the dance together.”
“I confess I thought so, too. But you expressed opinions then that I shared. You have since changed your mind, for some unaccountable reason.”
She paused in her polishing, a shining dish in her hand, and looked down at me with something between a laugh and a frown.
“I suppose you have never regretted speaking hastily,” she said.
“Many a time,” I returned, warming; “but if I ever thought a judgment measured and distilled, it was your judgment of the Celebrity.”
“Does the study of law eliminate humanity?” she asked, with a mock curtsey. “The deliberate sentences are sometimes the unjust ones, and men who are hung by weighed wisdom are often the innocent.”
“That is all very well in cases of doubt. But here you have the evidences of wrong-doing directly before you.”
Three dishes were taken up, dried, and put down before she answered me. I threw pebbles into the brook, and wished I had held my tongue.
“What evidence?” inquired she. “Well,” said I, “I must finish, I suppose. I had a notion you knew of what I inferred. First, let me say that I have no desire to prejudice you against a person whom you admire.”
“Impossible.”
Something in her tone made me look up.
“Very good, then,” I answered. “I, for one, can have no use for a man who devotes himself to a girl long enough to win her affections, and then deserts her with as little compunction as a dog does a rat it has shaken. And that is how your Celebrity treated Miss Trevor.”
“But Miss Trevor has recovered, I believe,” said Miss Thorn.
I began to feel a deep, but helpless, insecurity.
“Happily, yes,” I assented.
“Thanks to an excellent physician.”
A smile twitched the corners of her mouth, as though she enjoyed my discomfiture. I remarked for the fiftieth time how strong her face was, with its generous lines and clearly moulded features. And a suspicion entered my soul.
“At any rate,” I said, with a laugh, “the Celebrity has got himself into no end of a predicament now. He may go back to New York in custody.”
“I thought you incapable of resentment, Mr. Crocker. How mean of you to deny him!”
“It can do no harm,” I answered; “a little lesson in the dangers of incognito may be salutary. I wish it were a little lesson in the dangers of something else.”
The color mounted to her face as she resumed her occupation.
“I am afraid you are a very wicked man,” she said.
Before I could reply there came a scuffling sound from the bank above us, and the snapping of branches and twigs. It was Mr. Cooke. His descent, the personal conduction of which he lost half-way down, was irregular and spasmodic, and a rude concussion at the bottom knocked off a choice bit of profanity which was balanced on the tip of his tongue.
“Tobogganing is a little out of season,” said his niece, laughing heartily.
Mr. Cooke brushed himself off, picked up the glasses which he had dropped in his flight and pushed them into my hands. Then he pointed lakeward with bulging eyes.
“Crocker, old man,” he said in a loud whisper, “they tell me that is an Asquith cat-boat.”
I followed his finger and saw for the first time a sail-boat headed for the island, then about two miles off shore. I raised the glasses.
“Yes,” I said, “the Scimitar.”
“That's what Farrar said,” cried he.
“And what about it?” I asked.
“What about it?” he ejaculated. “Why, it's a detective come for Allen. I knew sure as hell if they got as far as Asquith they wouldn't stop there. And that's the fastest sail-boat he could hire there, isn't it?”
I replied that it was. He seized me by the shoulder and began dragging me up the bank.
“What are you going to do?” I cried, shaking myself loose.
“We've got to get on the Maria and run for it,” he panted. “There is no time to be lost.”
He had reached the top of the bank and was running towards the group at the tents. And he actually infused me with some of his red-hot enthusiasm, for I hastened after him.
“But you can't begin to get the Maria out before they will be in here,” I shouted.
He stopped short, gazed at the approaching boat, and then at me.
“Is that so?”
“Yes, of course,” said I, “they will be here in ten minutes.”
The Celebrity stood in the midst of the excited Four. His hair was parted precisely, and he had induced a monocle to remain in his eye long enough to examine the Scimitar, his nose at the critical elevation. This unruffled exterior made a deep impression on the Four. Was the Celebrity not undergoing the crucial test of a true sport? He was an example alike to criminals and philosophers.
Mr. Cooke hurried into the group, which divided respectfully for him, and grasped the Celebrity by the hand.
“Something else has got to be done, old man,” he said, in a voice which shook with emotion; “they'll be on us before we can get the Maria out.”
Farrar, who was nailing a rustic bench near by, straightened up at this, his lip curling with a desire to laugh.
The Celebrity laid his hand on my client's shoulder.
“Cooke,” said he, “I'm deeply grateful for all the trouble you wish to take, and for the solicitude you have shown. But let things be. I'll come out of it all right.”
“Never,” cried Cooke, looking proudly around the Four as some Highland chief might have surveyed a faithful clan. “I'd a damned sight rather go to jail myself.”
“A damned sight,” echoed the Four in unison.
“I insist, Cooke,” said the Celebrity, taking out his eyeglass and tapping Mr. Cooke's purple necktie, “I insist that you drop this business. I repeat my thanks to you and these gentlemen for the friendship they have shown, but say again that I am as innocent of this crime as a baby.”
Mr. Cooke paid no attention to this speech. His face became radiant.
“Didn't any of you fellows strike a cave, or a hollow tree, or something of that sort, knocking around this morning?”
One man slapped his knee.
“The very place,” he cried. “I fell into it,” and he showed a rent in his trousers corroboratively. “It's big enough to hold twenty of Allen, and the detective doesn't live that could find it.”
“Hustle him off, quick,” said Mr. Cooke.
The mandate was obeyed as literally as though Robin Hood himself had given it. The Celebrity disappeared into the forest, carried rather than urged towards his destined place of confinement.
The commotion had brought Mr. Trevor to the spot. He caught sight of the Celebrity's back between the trees, then he looked at the cat-boat entering the cove, a man in the stern preparing to pull in the tender.
He intercepted Mr. Cooke on his way to the beach.
“What have you done with Mr. Allen?” he asked, in a menacing voice.
“Good God,” said Mr. Cooke, whose contempt for Mr. Trevor was now infinite, “you talk as if I were the governor of the state. What the devil could I do with him?”
“I will have no evasion,” replied Mr. Trevor, taking an imposing posture in front of him. “You are trying to defeat the ends of justice by assisting a dangerous criminal to escape. I have warned you, sir, and warn you again of the consequences of your meditated crime, and I give you my word I will do all in my power to frustrate it.”
Mr. Cooke dug his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets. Here was a complication he had not looked for. The Scimitar lay at anchor with her sail down, and two men were coming ashore in the tender. Mr. Cooke's attitude being that of a man who reconsiders a rash resolve, Mr. Trevor was emboldened to say in a moderated tone:
“You were carried away by your generosity, Mr. Cooke. I was sure when you took time to think you would see it in another light.”
Mr. Cooke started off for the place where the boat had grounded. I did not catch his reply, and probably should not have written it here if I had. The senator looked as if he had been sand-bagged.
The two men jumped out of the boat and hauled it up. Mr. Cooke waved an easy salute to one, whom I recognized as the big boatman from Asquith, familiarly known as Captain Jay. He owned the Scimitar and several smaller boats. The captain went through the pantomime of an introduction between Mr. Cooke and the other, whom my client shook warmly by the hand, and presently all three came towards us.
Mr. Cooke led them to a bar he had improvised by the brook. A pool served the office of refrigerator, and Mr. Cooke had devised an ingenious but complicated arrangement of strings and labels which enabled him to extract any bottle or set of bottles without having to bare his arm and pull out the lot. Farrar and I responded to the call he had given, and went down to assist in the entertainment. My client, with his back to us, was busy manipulating the strings.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “let me make you acquainted with Mr. Drew. You all know the captain.”
Had I not suspected Mr. Drew's profession, I think I should not have remarked that he gave each of us a keen look as he raised his head. He had reddish-brown hair, and a pair of bushy red whiskers, each of which tapered to a long point. He was broad in the shoulders, and the clothes he wore rather enhanced this breadth. His suit was gray and almost new, the trousers perceptibly bagging at the knee, and he had a felt hat, a necktie of the white and flowery pattern, and square-toed “Congress” boots. In short, he was a decidedly ordinary looking person; you would meet a hundred like him in the streets of Far Harbor and Beaverton. He might have been a prosperous business man in either of those towns,—a comfortable lumber merchant or mine owner. And he had chosen just the get-up I should have picked for detective work in that region. He had a pleasant eye and a very fetching and hearty manner. But his long whiskers troubled me especially. I kept wondering if they were real.
“The captain is sailing Mr. Drew over to Far Harbor,” explained Mr. Cooke, “and they have put in here for the night.”
Mr. Drew was plainly not an amateur, for he volunteered nothing further than this. The necessary bottles having been produced, Mr. Cooke held up his glass and turned to the stranger.
“Welcome to our party, old man,” said he.
Mr. Drew drained his glass and complimented Mr. Cooke on the brand,—a sure key to my client's heart. Whereupon he seated himself between Mr. Drew and the captain and began a discourse on the subject of his own cellar, on which he talked for nearly an hour. His only pauses were for the worthy purpose of filling the detective's or the captain's glass, and these he watched with a hospitable solicitude. The captain had the advantage, three to one, and I made no doubt his employer bitterly regretted not having a boatman whose principles were more strict. At the end of the hour Captain Jay, who by nature was inclined to be taciturn and crabbed, waxed loquacious and even jovial. He sang us the songs he had learned in the winter lumber-camps, which Mr. Cooke never failed to encore to the echo. My client vowed he had not spent a pleasanter afternoon for years. He plied the captain with cigars, and explained to him the mystery of the strings and labels; and the captain experimented until he had broken some of the bottles.
Mr. Cooke was not a person who made any great distinction between the three degrees, acquaintance, friendship, and intimacy. When a stranger pleased him, he went from one to the other with such comparative ease that a hardhearted man, and no other, could have resented his advances. Mr. Drew was anything but a hard-hearted man, and he did not object to my client's familiarity. Mr. Cooke made no secret of his admiration for Mr. Drew, and there were just two things about him that Mr. Cooke admired and wondered at, above all else,—the bushy red whiskers. But it appeared that these were the only things that Mr. Drew was really touchy about. I noticed that the detective, without being impolite, did his best to discourage these remarks; but my client knew no such word as discouragement. He was continually saying: “I think I'll grow some like that, old man,” or “Have those cut,” and the like,—a kind of humor in which the captain took an incredible delight. And finally, when a certain pitch of good feeling had been arrived at, Mr. Cooke reached out and playfully grabbed hold of the one near him. The detective drew back. “Mr. Cooke,” said he, with dignity, “I'll have to ask you to let my whiskers alone.”
“Certainly, old man,” replied my client, anything but abashed. “You'll pardon me, but they seemed too good to be true. I congratulate you on them.”
I was amused as well as alarmed at this piece of boldness, but the incident passed off without any disagreeable results, except, perhaps, a slight nervousness noticeable in the detective; and this soon disappeared. As the sun grew low, the Celebrity's conductors straggled in with fishing-rods and told of an afternoon's sport, and we left the captain peacefully but sonorously slumbering on the bank.
“Crocker,” said my client to me, afterwards, “they didn't feel like the real, home-grown article. But aren't they damned handsome?”