“What can it mean?” asked Miss Thorn.

I had not so much as an idea.

“They certainly won’t desert us, at any rate,” I said.  “We had better go ashore again and wait.”

The Celebrity was seated on the beach, and he was whittling.  Now whittling is an occupation which speaks of a contented frame of mind, and the Maria’s departure did not seem to have annoyed or disturbed him.

“Castaways,” says he, gayly, “castaways on a foreign shore.  Two delightful young ladies, a bright young lawyer, a fugitive from justice, no chaperon, and nothing to eat.  And what a situation for a short story, if only an author were permitted to make use of his own experiences!”

“Only you don’t know how it will end,” Miss Thorn put in.

The Celebrity glanced up at her.

“I have a guess,” said he, with a smile.

“Is it true,” Miss Trevor asked, “that a story must contain the element of love in order to find favor with the public?”

“That generally recommends it, especially to your sex, Miss Trevor,” he replied jocosely.

Miss Trevor appeared interested.

“And tell me,” she went on, “isn’t it sometimes the case that you start out intent on one ending, and that your artistic sense of what is fitting demands another?”

“Don’t be silly, Irene,” said Miss Thorn.  She was skipping flat pebbles over the water, and doing it capitally, too.

I thought the Celebrity rather resented the question.

“That sometimes happens, of course,” said he, carelessly.  He produced his inevitable gold cigarette case and held it out to me.  “Be sociable for once, and have one,” he said.

I accepted.

“Do you know,” he continued, lighting me a match, “it beats me why you and Miss Trevor put this thing up on me.  You have enjoyed it, naturally, and if you wanted to make me out a donkey you succeeded rather well.  I used to think that Crocker was a pretty good friend of mine when I went to his dinners in New York.  And I once had every reason to believe,” he added, “that Miss Trevor and I were on excellent terms.”

Was this audacity or stupidity?  Undoubtedly both.

“So we were,” answered Miss Trevor, “and I should be very sorry to think, Mr. Allen,” she said meaningly, “that our relations had in any way changed.”

It was the Celebrity’s turn to flush.

“At any rate,” he remarked in his most offhand manner, “I am much obliged to you both.  On sober reflection I have come to believe that you did the very best thing for my reputation.”

CHAPTER XX

He had scarcely uttered these words before the reason for the Maria’s abrupt departure became apparent.  The anchorage of the yacht had been at a spot whence nearly the whole south of the lake towards Far Harbor was open, whilst a high tongue of land hid that part from us on the shore.  As he spoke, there shot before our eyes a steaming tug-boat, and a second look was not needed to assure me that she was the “H.  Sinclair, of Far Harbor.”  They had perceived her from the yacht an hour since, and it was clear that my client, prompt to act as to think, had decided at once to put out and lead her a blind chase, so giving the Celebrity a chance to make good his escape.