The afternoon wore cool; nay, cold is a better word.  The wind brought with it a suggestion of the pine-clad wastes of the northwestern wilderness whence it came, and that sure harbinger of autumn, the blue haze, settled around the hills, and benumbed the rays of the sun lingering over the crests.  Farrar and I, as navigators, were glad to get into our overcoats, while the others assembled in the little cabin and lighted the gasoline stove which stood in the corner.  Outside we had our pipes for consolation, and the sunset beauty of the lake.

By six we were well over the line, and consulting our chart, we selected a cove behind a headland on our left, which seemed the best we could do for an anchorage, although it was shallow and full of rocks.  As we were changing our course to run in, Mr. Cooke appeared, bundled up in his reefer.  He was in the best of spirits, and was good enough to concur with our plans.

“Now, sir,” asked Farrar, “what do you propose to do with Allen?”

But our client only chuckled.

“Wait and see, old man,” he said; “I’ve got that all fixed.”

“Well,” Farrar remarked, when he had gone in again, “he has steered it deuced well so far.  I think we can trust him.”

It was dark when we dropped anchor, a very tired party indeed; and as the Maria could not accommodate us all with sleeping quarters, Mr. Cooke decided that the ladies should have the cabin, since the night was cold.  And so it might have been, had not Miss Thorn flatly refused to sleep there.  The cabin was stuffy, she said, and so she carried her point.  Leaving Farrar and one of Mr. Cooke’s friends to take care of the yacht, the rest of us went ashore, built a roaring fire and raised a tent, and proceeded to make ourselves as comfortable as circumstances would allow.  The sense of relief over the danger passed produced a kind of lightheartedness amongst us, and the topics broached at supper would not have been inappropriate at a friendly dinner party.  As we were separating for the night Miss Thorn said to me: 

“I am so happy for your sake, Mr. Crocker, that he was not discovered.”

For my sake!  Could she really have meant it, after all?  I went to sleep thinking of that sentence, beside my client beneath the trees.  And it was first in my thoughts when I awoke.

As we dipped our faces in the brook the next morning my client laughed softly to himself between the gasps, and I knew that he had in mind the last consummate touch to his successful enterprise.  And the revelation came when the party were assembled at breakfast.  Mr. Cooke stood up, and drawing from his pocket a small and mysterious paper parcel he forthwith delivered himself in the tone and manner which had so endeared him to the familiars of the Lake House bar.