“Mr. Trevor,” said I, “I will take the course in this matter which seems fit to me, and without advice from any one.”

He wheeled on Farrar, repeated the question, and got a like answer.

Brought to bay for a time, he glared savagely around him while groping for further arguments.

But at this point the Four appeared on the scene, much the worse for thickets, and clamoring for luncheon.  They had five small fish between them which they wanted Miss Thorn to cook.

CHAPTER XII

The Four received Mr. Cooke’s plan for the Celebrity’s escape to Canada with enthusiastic acclamation, and as the one thing lacking to make the Bear Island trip a complete success.  The Celebrity was hailed with the reverence due to the man who puts up the ring-money in a prize-fight.  He was accorded, too, a certain amount of respect as a defaulter, which the Four would have denied him as an author, for I am inclined to the belief that the discovery of his literary profession would have lowered him rather than otherwise in their eyes.  My client was naturally anxious to get under way at once for the Canadian border, but was overruled in this by his henchmen, who demanded something to eat.  We sat down to an impromptu meal, which was an odd affair indeed.  Mrs. Cooke maintained her usual serenity, but said little, while Miss Trevor and I had many a mirthful encounter at the thought of the turn matters had taken.

At the other end of the cloth were Mr. Cooke and the Four, in wonderful spirits and unimpaired appetite, and in their midst sat the Celebrity, likewise in wonderful spirits.  His behavior now and again elicited a loud grunt of disapproval from Mr. Trevor, who was plying his knife and fork in a manner emblematic of his state of mind.  Mr. Allen was laughing and joking airily with Mr. Cooke and the guests, denying, but not resenting, their accusations with all the sang froid of a hardened criminal.  He did not care particularly to go to Canada, he said.  Why should he, when he was innocent?  But, if Mr. Cooke insisted, he would enjoy seeing that part of the lake and the Canadian side.

Afterwards I perceived Miss Thorn down by the brookside, washing dishes.  Her sleeves were drawn back to the elbow, and a dainty white apron covered her blue skirt, while the wind from the lake had disentangled errant wisps of her hair.  I stood on the brink above, secure, as I thought, from observation, when she chanced to look up and spied me.

“Mr. Crocker,” she called, “would you like to make yourself useful?”

I was decidedly embarrassed.  Her manner was as frank and unconstrained as though I had not been shunning her for weeks past.

“If such a thing is possible,” I replied.

“Do you know a dish-cloth when you see one?”

I was doubtful.  But I procured the cloth from Miss Trevor and returned.  There was an air about Miss Thorn that was new to me.