The Celebrity’s speech produced a good impression on all save Mr. Cooke, who appeared a trifle water-logged.  He had dealt successfully with Mr. Allen when that gentleman had been in defiant moods, or in moods of ugly sarcasm.  But this good-natured, turn-you-down-easy note puzzled my client not a little.  Was this cherished scheme a whim or a joke to be lightly cast aside?  Mr. Cooke thought not.  The determination which distinguished him still sat in his eye as he bustled about giving orders for the breaking of camp.  This refractory criminal must be saved from himself, cost what it might, and responsibility again rested heavy on my client’s mind as I rowed him out to the Maria.

“Crocker,” he said, “if Allen is scooped in spite of us, you have got to go East and make him out an idiot.”

He seemed to think that I had a talent for this particular defence.  I replied that I would do my best.

“It won’t be difficult,” he went on; “not near as tough as that case you won for me.  You can bring in all the bosh about his claiming to be an author, you know.  And I’ll stand expenses.”

This was downright generous of Mr. Cooke.  We have all, no doubt, drawn our line between what is right and what is wrong, but I have often wondered how many of us with the world’s indorsement across our backs trespass as little on the other side of the line as he.

After Farrar and the Four got aboard it fell to my lot to row the rest of the party to the yacht.  And this was no slight task that morning.  The tender was small, holding but two beside the man at the oars, and owing to the rocks and shallow water of which I have spoken, the Maria lay considerably over a quarter of a mile out.  Hence each trip occupied some time.  Mr. Cooke I had transferred with a load of canvas and the tent poles, and next I returned for Mrs. Cooke and Mr. Trevor, whom I deposited safely.  Then I landed again, helped in Miss Trevor and Miss Thorn, leaving the Celebrity for the last, and was pulling for the yacht when a cry from the tender’s stern arrested me.

“Mr. Crocker, they are sailing away without us!”

I turned in my seat.  The Maria’s mainsail was up, and the jib was being hoisted, and her head was rapidly falling off to the wind.  Farrar was casting.  In the stern, waving a handkerchief, I recognized Mrs. Cooke, and beside her a figure in black, gesticulating frantically, a vision of coat-tails flapping in the breeze.  Then the yacht heeled on her course and forged lakewards.

“Row, Mr. Crocker, row! they are leaving us!” cried Miss Trevor, in alarm.

I hastened to reassure her.

“Farrar is probably trying something,” I said.  “They will be turning presently.”

This is just what they did not do.  Once out of the inlet, they went about and headed northward, up the coast, and we remained watching them until Mr. Trevor became a mere oscillating black speck against the sail.