his cap and scratched his head.

"Well, McCann, I hope you're contented," I said.

"Mr. Crocker," said he, "and it's that thankful I am for you that the
gent ain't here. But with him cutting high finks up at Mr. Cooke's house
with a valet, and him coming on the yacht with yese, and the whole
country in that state about him, begorra," said McCann, "and it's domned
strange! Maybe it's swimmin' in the water he is!"

The whole party had followed the search, and at this speech of the
chief's our nervous tension became suddenly relaxed. Most of us sat down
to laugh.

"I'm asking no questions, Mr. Crocker, yell take notice," he remarked,
his voice full of reproachful meaning.

"McCann," said I, "you come outside. I want to speak to you."

He followed me out.

"Now," I went on, "you know me pretty well" (he nodded doubtfully), "and
if I give you my word that Charles Wrexell Allen is not on this yacht,
and never has been, is that sufficient?"

"Is it the truth you're saying, sir?"

I assured him that it was.

"Then where is he, Mr. Crocker?"

"God only knows!" I replied, with fervor. "I don't, McCann."

The chief was satisfied. He went back into the cabin, and Mr. Cooke, in
the exuberance of his joy, produced champagne. McCann had heard of my
client and of his luxurious country place, and moreover it was the first
time he had ever been on a yellow-plush yacht. He tarried. He drank Mr.
Cooke's health and looked around him in wonder and awe, and his remarks
were worthy of record. These sayings and the thought of the author of
The Sybarites stifling below with his mouth to an auger-hole kept us in a
continual state of merriment. And at last our visitor rose to go.

As he was stepping over the side, Mr. Cooke laid hold of a brass button
and pressed a handful of the black cigars upon him.

"My regards to the detective, old man," said he.

McCann stared.

"My regards to Drew," my client insisted.

"Oh!" said McCann, his face lighting up, "him with the whiskers, what
came from Bear Island in a cat-boat. Sure, he wasn't no detective, sir."

"What was he? A police commissioner?"

"Mr. Cooke," said McCann, disdainfully, as he got into his boat, "he
wasn't nothing but a prospector doing the lake for one of them summer
hotel companies."

CHAPTER XIX

When the biography of the Celebrity is written, and I have no doubt it
will be some day, may his biographer kindly draw a veil over that instant
in his life wh