Mr. Cooke was not a person who made any great distinction between the three degrees, acquaintance, friendship, and intimacy.  When a stranger pleased him, he went from one to the other with such comparative ease that a hardhearted man, and no other, could have resented his advances.  Mr. Drew was anything but a hard-hearted man, and he did not object to my client’s familiarity.  Mr. Cooke made no secret of his admiration for Mr. Drew, and there were just two things about him that Mr. Cooke admired and wondered at, above all else,—­the bushy red whiskers.  But it appeared that these were the only things that Mr. Drew was really touchy about.  I noticed that the detective, without being impolite, did his best to discourage these remarks; but my client knew no such word as discouragement.  He was continually saying:  “I think I’ll grow some like that, old man,” or “Have those cut,” and the like,—­a kind of humor in which the captain took an incredible delight.  And finally, when a certain pitch of good feeling had been arrived at, Mr. Cooke reached out and playfully grabbed hold of the one near him.  The detective drew back.  “Mr. Cooke,” said he, with dignity, “I’ll have to ask you to let my whiskers alone.”

“Certainly, old man,” replied my client, anything but abashed.  “You’ll pardon me, but they seemed too good to be true.  I congratulate you on them.”

I was amused as well as alarmed at this piece of boldness, but the incident passed off without any disagreeable results, except, perhaps, a slight nervousness noticeable in the detective; and this soon disappeared.  As the sun grew low, the Celebrity’s conductors straggled in with fishing-rods and told of an afternoon’s sport, and we left the captain peacefully but sonorously slumbering on the bank.

“Crocker,” said my client to me, afterwards, “they didn’t feel like the real, home-grown article.  But aren’t they damned handsome?”

CHAPTER XIII

After supper, Captain Jay was rowed out and put to bed in his own bunk on the Scimitar.  Then we heaped together a huge pile of the driftwood on the beach and raised a blazing beacon, the red light of which I doubt not could be seen from the mainland.  The men made prongs from the soft wood, while Miss Thorn produced from the stores some large tins of marshmallows.

The memory of that evening lingers with me yet.  The fire colored everything.  The waves dashed in ruby foam at our feet, and even the tall, frowning pines at our backs were softened; the sting was gone out of the keen night wind from the north.  I found a place beside the gray cape I had seen for the first time the night of the cotillon.  I no longer felt any great dislike for Miss Thorn, let it be known.  Resentment was easier when the distance between Mohair and Asquith separated us,—­impossible on a yachting excursion.  But why should I be justifying myself?