“What is it?” asked Miss Trevor, anxiously.

“The tug has the Maria in tow,” I said, “and they are coming this way.”

We scrambled down, sobered by this discovery and thinking of little else.  And breaking through the bushes we came upon Miss Thorn and the Celebrity.  To me, preoccupied with the knowledge that the tug would soon be upon us, there seemed nothing strange in the attitude of these two, but Miss Trevor remarked something out of the common at once.  How keenly a woman scents a situation.

The Celebrity was standing with his back to Miss Thorn, at the edge of the water.  His chin was in the air, and to a casual observer he looked to be minutely interested in a flock of gulls passing over us.  And Miss Thorn?  She was enthroned upon a heap of drift-wood, and when I caught sight of her face I forgot the very existence of the police captain.  Her lips were parted in a smile.

“You are just in time, Irene,” she said calmly; “Mr. Allen has asked me to be his wife.”

I stood, with the hatful of berries in my hand, like a stiff wax figure in a museum.  The expected had come at last; and how little do we expect the expected when it comes!  I was aware that both the young women were looking at me, and that both were quietly laughing.  And I must have cut a ridiculous figure indeed, though I have since been informed on good authority that this was not so.  Much I cared then what happened.  Then came Miss Trevor’s reply, and it seemed to shake the very foundations of my wits.

“But, Marian,” said she, “you can’t have him.  He is engaged to me.  And if it’s quite the same to you, I want him myself.  It isn’t often, you know, that one has the opportunity to marry a Celebrity.”

The Celebrity turned around:  an expression of extraordinary intelligence shot across his face, and I knew then that the hole in the well-nigh invulnerable armor of his conceit had been found at last.  And Miss Thorn, of all people, had discovered it.

“Engaged to you?” she cried, “I can’t believe it.  He would be untrue to everything he has written.”

“My word should be sufficient,” said Miss Trevor, stiffly. (May I be hung if they hadn’t acted it all out before.) “If you should wish proofs, however, I have several notes from him which are at your service, and an inscribed photograph.  No, Marian,” she added, shaking her head, “I really cannot give him up.”

Miss Thorn rose and confronted him, and her dignity was inspiring.  “Is this so?” she demanded; “is it true that you are engaged to marry Miss Trevor?”

The Bone of Contention was badly troubled.  He had undoubtedly known what it was to have two women quarrelling over his hand at the same time, but I am willing to bet that the sensation of having them come together in his presence was new to him.

“I did not think—­” he began.  “I was not aware that Miss Trevor looked upon the matter in that light, and you know—­”