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<h2> CHAPTER XIII </h2> After supper, Captain Jay was rowed out and put to bed in his own bunk on the Scimitar. Then we heaped together a huge pile of the driftwood on the beach and raised a blazing beacon, the red light of which I doubt not could be seen from the mainland. The men made prongs from the soft wood, while Miss Thorn produced from the stores some large tins of marshmallows. The memory of that evening lingers with me yet. The fire colored everything. The waves dashed in ruby foam at our feet, and even the tall, frowning pines at our backs were softened; the sting was gone out of the keen night wind from the north. I found a place beside the gray cape I had seen for the first time the night of the cotillon. I no longer felt any great dislike for Miss Thorn, let it be known. Resentment was easier when the distance between Mohair and Asquith separated us,—impossible on a yachting excursion. But why should I be justifying myself? Mr. Cooke and the Four, in addition to other accomplishments, possessed excellent voices, and Mr. Drew sang a bass which added much to the melody. One of the Four played a banjo. It is only justice to Mr. Drew to say that he seemed less like a detective than any man I have ever met. He told a good story and was quick at repartee, and after a while the music, by tacit consent, was abandoned for the sake of hearing him talk. He related how he had worked up the lake, point by point, from Beaverton to Asquith, and lightened his narrative with snappy accounts of the different boatmen he had run across and of the different predicaments into which he had fallen. His sketches were so vivid that Mr. Cooke forgot to wink at me after a while and sat spellbound, while I marvelled at the imaginative faculty he displayed. He had us in roars of laughter. His stories were far from incredible, and he looked less like a liar than a detective. He showed, too, an accurate and astonishing knowledge of the lake which could hardly have been acquired in any other way than the long-shore trip he had described. Not once did he hint of a special purpose which had brought him to the island, and it was growing late. The fire died down upon the stones, and the thought of the Celebrity, alone in a dark cave in the middle of the island, began to prey upon me. I was not designed for a practical joker, and I take it that pity is a part of every self-respecting man's composition. In the cool of the night season the ludicrous side of the matter did not appeal to me quite as strongly as in the glare of day. A joke should never be pushed to cruelty. It was in vain that I argued I had no direct hand in the concealing of him; I felt my responsibility quite as heavy upon me. Perhaps bears still remained in these woods. And if a bear should devour the author of The Sybarites, would the world ever forgive me? Could I ever repay the debt to the young women of these United States? To speak truth, I expected every moment to see him appear. Why, in the name of all his works, did he stay there? Nothing worse could befall him than to go to Far Harbor with Drew, where our words concerning his identity would be taken. And what an advertisement this would be for the great author. The Sybarites, now selling by thousands, would increase its sales to ten thousands. Ah, there was the rub. The clue to his remaining in the cave was this very kink in the Celebrity's character. There was nothing Bohemian in that character; it yearned after the eminently respectable. Its very eccentricities were within the limits of good form. The Celebrity shunned the biscuits and beer of the literary clubs, and his books were bound for the boudoir. To have it proclaimed in the sensational journals that the hands of this choice being had been locked for grand larceny was a thought too horrible to entertain. His very manservant would have cried aloud against it. Better a hundred nights in a cave than one such experience! Miss Trevor's behavior that evening was so unrestful as to lead me to believe that she, too, was going through qualms of sympathy for the victim. As we were breaking up for the evening she pulled my sleeve. “Don't you think we have carried our joke a little too far, Mr. Crocker?” she whispered uneasily. “I can't bear to think of him in that terrible place.” “It will do him a world of good,” I replied, assuming a gayety I did not feel. It is not pleasant to reflect that some day one's own folly might place one in a like situation. And the night was dismally cool and windy, now that the fire had gone out. Miss Trevor began to philosophize. “Such practical pleasantries as this,” she said, “are like infernal machines: they often blow up the people that start them. And they are next to impossible to steer.” “Perhaps it is just as well not to assume we are the instruments of Providence,” I said. Here we ran into Miss Thorn, who was carrying a lantern. “I have been searching everywhere for you two mischief-makers,” said she. “You ought to be ashamed of yourselves. Heaven only knows how this little experiment will end. Here is Aunt Maria, usually serene, on the verge of hysterics: she says he shouldn't stay in that damp cave another minute. Here is your father, Irene, organizing relief parties and walking the floor of his tent like a madman. And here is Uncle Fenelon insane over the idea of getting the poor, innocent man into Canada. And here is a detective saddled upon us, perhaps for days, and Uncle Fenelon has gotten his boatman drunk. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves,” she repeated. Miss Trevor laughed, in spite of the gravity of these things, and so did I. “Oh, come, Marian,” said she, “it isn't as bad as all that. And you talk as if you hadn't anything to be reproached for. Your own defence of the Celebrity wasn't as strong as it might have been.” By the light of the lantern I saw Miss Thorn cast one meaning look at Miss Trevor. “What are you going to do about it?” asked Miss Thorn, addressing me. “Think of that unhappy man, without a bed, without blankets, without even a tooth-brush.” “He hasn't been wholly off my mind,” I answered truthfully. “But there isn't anything we can do to-night, with that beastly detective to notice it.” “Then you must go very early to-morrow morning, before the detective gets up.” I couldn't help smiling at the notion of getting up before a detective. “I am only too willing,” I said. “It must be by four o'clock,” Miss Thorn went on energetically, “and we must have a guide we can trust. Arrange it with one of Uncle Fenelon's friends.” “We?” I repeated. “You certainly don't imagine that I am going to be left behind?” said Miss Thorn. I made haste to invite for the expedition one of the Four, who was quite willing to go; and we got together all the bodily comforts we could think of and put them in a hamper, the Fraction not forgetting to add a few bottles from Mr. Cooke's immersed bar. Long after the camp had gone to bed, I lay on the pine-needles above the brook, shielded from the wind by a break in the slope, and thought of the strange happenings of that day. Presently the waning moon climbed reluctantly from the waters, and the stream became mottled, black and white, the trees tall blurs. The lake rose and fell with a mighty rhythm, and the little brook hurried madly over the stones to join it. One thought chased another from my brain. At such times, when one's consciousness of outer things is dormant, an earthquake might continue for some minutes without one realizing it. I did not observe, though I might have seen from where I lay, the flap of one of the tents drawn back and two figures emerge. They came and stood on the bank above, under the tree which sheltered me. And I experienced a curious phenomenon. I heard, and understood, and remembered the first part of the conversation which passed between them, and did not know it. “I am sorry to disturb you,” said one. “Not at all,” said the other, whose tone, I thought afterwards, betokened surprise, and no great cheerfulness. “But I have had no other opportunity to speak with you.” “No,” said the other, rather uneasily. Suddenly my senses were alert, and I knew that Mr. Trevor had pulled the detective out of bed. The senator had no doubt anticipated an easier time, and he now began feeling for an opening. More than once he cleared his throat to commence, while Mr. Drew pulled his scant clothing closer about him, his whiskers playing in the breeze. “In Cincinnati, Mr. Drew,” said Mr. Trevor, at length, “I am a known, if not an influential, citizen; and I have served my state for three terms in its Senate.” “I have visited your city, Mr. Trevor,” answered Mr. Drew, his teeth chattering audibly, “and I know you by reputation.” “Then, sir,” Mr. Trevor continued, with a flourish which appeared absolutely grotesque in his attenuated costume, “it must be clear to you that I cannot give my consent to a flagrant attempt by an unscrupulous person to violate the laws of this country.” “Your feelings are to be respected, sir.” Mr. Trevor cleared his throat again. “Discretion is always to be observed, Mr. Drew. And I, who have been in the public service, know the full value of it.” Mr. Trevor leaned forward, at the same time glancing anxiously up at the tree, for fear, perhaps, that Mr. Cooke might be concealed therein. He said in a stage whisper: “A criminal is concealed on this island.” Drew started perceptibly. “Yes,” said Mr. Trevor, with a glance of triumph at having produced an impression on a detective, “I thought it my duty to inform you. He has been hidden by the followers of the unscrupulous person I referred to, in a cave, I believe. I repeat, sir, as a man of unimpeachable standing, I considered it my duty to tell you.” “You have my sincere thanks, Mr. Trevor,” said Drew, holding out his hand, “and I shall act on the suggestion.” Mr. Trevor clasped the hand of the detective, and they returned quietly to their respective tents. And in course of time I followed them, wondering how this incident might affect our morning's expedition. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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