The commotion had brought Mr. Trevor to the spot.  He caught sight of the Celebrity’s back between the trees, then he looked at the cat-boat entering the cove, a man in the stern preparing to pull in the tender.

He intercepted Mr. Cooke on his way to the beach.

“What have you done with Mr. Allen?” he asked, in a menacing voice.

“Good God,” said Mr. Cooke, whose contempt for Mr. Trevor was now infinite, “you talk as if I were the governor of the state.  What the devil could I do with him?”

“I will have no evasion,” replied Mr. Trevor, taking an imposing posture in front of him.  “You are trying to defeat the ends of justice by assisting a dangerous criminal to escape.  I have warned you, sir, and warn you again of the consequences of your meditated crime, and I give you my word I will do all in my power to frustrate it.”

Mr. Cooke dug his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets.  Here was a complication he had not looked for.  The Scimitar lay at anchor with her sail down, and two men were coming ashore in the tender.  Mr. Cooke’s attitude being that of a man who reconsiders a rash resolve, Mr. Trevor was emboldened to say in a moderated tone: 

“You were carried away by your generosity, Mr. Cooke.  I was sure when you took time to think you would see it in another light.”

Mr. Cooke started off for the place where the boat had grounded.  I did not catch his reply, and probably should not have written it here if I had.  The senator looked as if he had been sand-bagged.

The two men jumped out of the boat and hauled it up.  Mr. Cooke waved an easy salute to one, whom I recognized as the big boatman from Asquith, familiarly known as Captain Jay.  He owned the Scimitar and several smaller boats.  The captain went through the pantomime of an introduction between Mr. Cooke and the other, whom my client shook warmly by the hand, and presently all three came towards us.

Mr. Cooke led them to a bar he had improvised by the brook.  A pool served the office of refrigerator, and Mr. Cooke had devised an ingenious but complicated arrangement of strings and labels which enabled him to extract any bottle or set of bottles without having to bare his arm and pull out the lot.  Farrar and I responded to the call he had given, and went down to assist in the entertainment.  My client, with his back to us, was busy manipulating the strings.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “let me make you acquainted with Mr. Drew.  You all know the captain.”

Had I not suspected Mr. Drew’s profession, I think I should not have remarked that he gave each of us a keen look as he raised his head.  He had reddish-brown hair, and a pair of bushy red whiskers, each of which tapered to a long point.  He was broad in the shoulders, and the clothes he wore rather enhanced this breadth.  His suit was gray and almost new, the trousers perceptibly bagging at the knee, and he had a felt hat, a necktie of the white and