Some of us laughed.  I thought things a little too close to be funny.  Since the Celebrity had lost his nerve and betaken himself to the place of concealment Mr. Cooke had prepared for him, the whole composition of the affair was changed.  Before, if McCann had arrested the ostensible Mr. Allen, my word, added to fifty dollars from my client, would probably have been sufficient.  Should he be found now, no district attorney on the face of the earth could induce the chief to believe that he was any other than the real criminal; nor would any bribe be large enough to compensate McCann for the consequences of losing so important a prisoner.  There was nothing now but to carry it off with a high hand.  McCann got up.

“Be your lave, Mr. Crocker,” he said.

“Never you mind me, McCann,” I replied, “but you do what is right.”

With that he began his search.  It might have been ludicrous if I had had any desire to laugh, for the chief wore the gingerly air of a man looking for a rattlesnake which has to be got somehow.  And my client assisted at the inspection with all the graces of a dancing-master.  McCann poked into the forward lockers where we kept the stores,—­dropping the iron lid within an inch of his toe,—­and the clothing-lockers and the sail-lockers.  He reached under the bunks, and drew out his hand again quickly, as though he expected to be bitten.  And at last he stood by the trap with the hole in it, under which the Celebrity lay prostrate.  I could hear my own breathing.  But Mr. Cooke had his wits about him still, and at this critical juncture he gave McCann a thump on the back which nearly carried him off his feet.

“They say the mast is hollow, old man,” he suggested.

“Be jabers, Mr. Cooke,” said McCann, “and I’m beginning to think it is!

“He took off 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?”