tillon. 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 advertisem