; and together we
folded the tents with astonishing despatch and rowed them out to the
Maria, Mr. Cooke having gone to his knees in the water to shove the boat
off.

"What are we doing this for?" said Farrar to me, as we hoisted the sail.

We both laughed.

"I have just been asking myself that question," I replied.

"You are a nice district attorney, Crocker," he said. "You have made
a most proper and equitable decision in giving your consent to Allen's
escape. Doesn't your conscience smart?"

"Not unbearably. I'll tell you what, Farrar," said I, "the truth is,
that this fellow never embezzled so much as a ten-cent piece. He isn't
guilty: he isn't the man."

"Isn't the man?" repeated Farrar.

"No," I answered; "it's a long tale, and no time to tell it now. But he
is really, as he claims to be, the author of all those detestable books
we have been hearing so much of."

"The deuce he is!" exclaimed Farrar, dropping the stopper he was tying.
"Did he write The Sybarites?"

"Yes, sir; he wrote The Sybarites, and all the rest of that trash."

"He's the fellow that maintains a man ought to marry a girl after he has
become engaged to her."

"Exactly," I said, smiling at his way of putting it.

"Preaches constancy to all men, but doesn't object to stealing."

I laughed.

"You're badly mixed," I explained. "I told you he never stole anything.
He was only ass enough to take the man's name who is the living image of
him. And the other man took the bonds."

"Oh, come now," said he, "tell me something improbable while you are
about it."

"It's true," I replied, repressing my mirth; "true as the tale of
Timothy. I knew him when he was a mere boy. But I don't give you that as
a proof, for he might have become all things to all men since. Ask Miss
Trevor; or Miss Thorn; she knows the other man, the bicycle man, and has
seen them both together."

"Where, in India? Was one standing on the ground looking at his double
go to heaven? Or was it at one of those drawing-room shows where a
medium holds conversation with your soul, while your body sleeps on the
lounge? By George, Crocker, I thought you were a sensible man."

No wonder I got angry. But I might have come at some proper estimation
of Farrar's incredulity by that time.

"I suppose you wouldn't take a lady's word," I growled.

"Not for that," he said, busy again with the sail stops; "nor St.
Chrysostom's, were he to come here and vouch for it. It is too damne