“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.”

“I’ve had my breakfast,” he said, taking out a cigarette.

Then Mr. Trevor got up.

“He demands, sir, to be delivered over to the authorities,” said he, “and you have no right to refuse him.  I protest strongly.”

“And you can protest all you damn please,” retorted my client; “this isn’t the Ohio State Senate.  Do you know where I would put you, Mr. Trevor?  Do you know where you ought to be?  In a hencoop, sir, if I had one here.  In a hen-coop.  What would you do if a man who had gone a little out of his mind asked you for a gun to shoot himself with?  Give it him, I suppose.  But I put Mr. Allen ashore in Canada, with the funds to get off with, and then my duty’s done.”