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Celebrity

<h2> CHAPTER XI </h2> 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 STANDISH BICYCLE 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. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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