So life at the inn settled down again to what it had been before the Celebrity came to disturb it.

I had my own reasons for staying away from Mohair.  More than once as I drove over to the county-seat in my buggy I had met the Celebrity on a tall tandem cart, with one of Mr. Cooke’s high-steppers in the lead, and Miss Thorn in the low seat.  I had forgotten to mention that my friend was something of a whip.  At such times I would bow very civilly and pass on; not without a twinge, I confess.  And as the result of one of these meetings I had to retrace several miles of my road for a brief I had forgotten.  After that I took another road, several miles longer, for the sight of Miss Thorn with him seriously disturbed my peace of mind.  But at length the day came, as I had feared, when circumstances forced me to go to my client’s place.  One morning Miss Trevor and I were about stepping into the canoe for our customary excursion when one of Mr. Cooke’s footmen arrived with a note for each of us.  They were from Mrs. Cooke, and requested the pleasure of our company that day for luncheon.  “If you were I, would you go?” Miss Trevor asked doubtfully.

“Of course,” I replied.

“But the consequences may be unpleasant.”

“Don’t let them,” I said.  “Of what use is tact to a woman if not for just such occasions?”

My invitation had this characteristic note tacked on the end of it

“Dear Crocker:  Where are you?  Where is the judge?  F. F. C.”

I corralled the judge, and we started off across the fields, in no very mild state of fear of that gentleman’s wife, whose vigilance was seldom relaxed.  And thus we came by a circuitous route to Mohair, the judge occupied by his own guilty thoughts, and I by others not less disturbing.  My client welcomed the judge with that warmth of manner which grappled so many of his friends to his heart, and they disappeared together into the Ethiopian card-room, which was filled with the assegais and exclamation point shields Mr. Cooke had had made at the Sawmill at Beaverton.

I learned from one of the lords-in-waiting loafing about the hall that Mrs. Cooke was out on the golf links, chaperoning some of the Asquith young women whose mothers had not seen fit to ostracize Mohair.  Mr. Cooke’s ten friends were with them.  But this discreet and dignified servant could not reveal the whereabouts of Miss Thorn and of Mr. Allen, both of whom I was decidedly anxious to avoid.  I was much disgusted, therefore, to come upon the Celebrity in the smoking-room, writing rapidly, with, sheets of manuscript piled beside him.  And he was quite good-natured over my intrusion.

“No,” said he, “don’t go.  It’s only a short story I promised for a Christmas number.  They offered me fifteen cents a word and promised to put my name on the cover in red, so I couldn’t very well refuse.  It’s no inspiration, though, I tell you that.”  He rose and pressed a bell behind him and ordered whiskeys and ginger ales, as if he were in a hotel.  “Sit down, Crocker,” he said, waving me to a morocco chair.  “Why don’t you come over to see us oftener?”