“You’re badly mixed,” I explained.  “I told you he never stole anything.  He was only ass enough to take the man’s name who is the living image of him.  And the other man took the bonds.”

“Oh, come now,” said he, “tell me something improbable while you are about it.”

“It’s true,” I replied, repressing my mirth; “true as the tale of Timothy.  I knew him when he was a mere boy.  But I don’t give you that as a proof, for he might have become all things to all men since.  Ask Miss Trevor; or Miss Thorn; she knows the other man, the bicycle man, and has seen them both together.”

“Where, in India?  Was one standing on the ground looking at his double go to heaven?  Or was it at one of those drawing-room shows where a medium holds conversation with your soul, while your body sleeps on the lounge?  By George, Crocker, I thought you were a sensible man.”

No wonder I got angry.  But I might have come at some proper estimation of Farrar’s incredulity by that time.

“I suppose you wouldn’t take a lady’s word,” I growled.

“Not for that,” he said, busy again with the sail stops; “nor St. Chrysostom’s, were he to come here and vouch for it.  It is too damned improbable.”

“Stranger things than that have happened,” I retorted, fuming.

“Not to any of us,” he said.  Presently he added, chuckling:  “He’d better not get into the clutches of that man Drew.”

“What do you mean?” I demanded.  Farrar was exasperating at times.

“Drew will wind those handcuffs on him like tourniquets,” he laughed.

There seemed to be something behind this remark, but before I could inquire into it we were interrupted by Mr. Cooke, who was standing on the beach, swearing and gesticulating for the boat.

“I trust,” said Farrar, as we rowed ashore, “that this blind excitement will continue, and that we shall have the extreme pleasure of setting down our friend in Her Majesty’s dominions with a yachting-suit and a ham sandwich.”

We sat down to a hasty breakfast, in the middle of which the Celebrity arrived.  His appearance was unexceptionable, but his heavy jaw was set in a manner which should have warned Mr. Cooke not to trifle with him.

“Sit down, old man, and take a bite before we start for Canada,” said my client.

The Celebrity walked up to him.

“Mr. Cooke,” he began in a menacing tone, “it is high time this nonsense was ended.  I am tired of being made a buffoon of for your party.  For your gratification I have spent a sleepless night in those cold, damp woods; and I warn you that practical joking can be carried too far.  I will not go to Canada, and I insist that you sail me back to Asquith.”

Mr. Cooke winked significantly in our direction and tapped his head.

“I don’t wonder you’re a little upset, old man,” he said, humoringly patting him; “but sit down for a bite of something, and you’ll see things differently.”