Mr. Cooke and the Four, in addition to other accomplishments, possessed excellent voices, and Mr. Drew sang a bass which added much to the melody.  One of the Four played a banjo.  It is only justice to Mr. Drew to say that he seemed less like a detective than any man I have ever met.  He told a good story and was quick at repartee, and after a while the music, by tacit consent, was abandoned for the sake of hearing him talk.  He related how he had worked up the lake, point by point, from Beaverton to Asquith, and lightened his narrative with snappy accounts of the different boatmen he had run across and of the different predicaments into which he had fallen.  His sketches were so vivid that Mr. Cooke forgot to wink at me after a while and sat spellbound, while I marvelled at the imaginative faculty he displayed.  He had us in roars of laughter.  His stories were far from incredible, and he looked less like a liar than a detective.  He showed, too, an accurate and astonishing knowledge of the lake which could hardly have been acquired in any other way than the long-shore trip he had described.  Not once did he hint of a special purpose which had brought him to the island, and it was growing late.  The fire died down upon the stones, and the thought of the Celebrity, alone in a dark cave in the middle of the island, began to prey upon me.  I was not designed for a practical joker, and I take it that pity is a part of every self-respecting man’s composition.  In the cool of the night season the ludicrous side of the matter did not appeal to me quite as strongly as in the glare of day.  A joke should never be pushed to cruelty.  It was in vain that I argued I had no direct hand in the concealing of him; I felt my responsibility quite as heavy upon me.  Perhaps bears still remained in these woods.  And if a bear should devour the author of The Sybarites, would the world ever forgive me?  Could I ever repay the debt to the young women of these United States?  To speak truth, I expected every moment to see him appear.  Why, in the name of all his works, did he stay there?  Nothing worse could befall him than to go to Far Harbor with Drew, where our words concerning his identity would be taken.  And what an advertisement this would be for the great author.  The Sybarites, now selling by thousands, would increase its sales to ten thousands.  Ah, there was the rub.  The clue to his remaining in the cave was this very kink in the Celebrity’s character.  There was nothing Bohemian in that character; it yearned after the eminently respectable.  Its very eccentricities were within the limits of good form.  The Celebrity shunned the biscuits and beer of the literary clubs, and his books were bound for the boudoir.  To have it proclaimed in the sensational journals that the hands of this choice being had been locked for grand larceny was a thought too horrible to entertain.  His very manservant would have cried aloud against it.  Better a hundred nights in a cave than one such experience!