Our first, night in the Bear Island camp passed without incident, and we
all slept profoundly, tired out by the labors of the day before. After
breakfast, the Four set out to explore, with trout-rods and shot-guns.
Bear Island is, with the exception of the cove into which we had put, as
nearly round as an island can be, and perhaps three miles in diameter.
It has two clear brooks which, owing to the comparative inaccessibility
of the place, still contain trout and grayling, though there are few
spots where a fly can be cast on account of the dense underbrush. The
woods contain partridge, or ruffed grouse, and other game in smaller
quantities. I believe my client entertained some notion of establishing
a preserve here.
The insults which had been heaped upon the Celebrity on the yacht seemed
to have raised rather than lowered him in Miss Thorn's esteem, for these
two ensconced themselves among the pines above the camp with an edition
de luxe of one of his works which she had brought along. They were soon
absorbed in one of those famous short stories of his with the ending
left open to discussion. Mr. Cooke was indisposed. He had not yet
recovered from the shaking up his system had sustained, and he took to
a canvas easy chair he had brought with him and placed a decanter of
Scotch and a tumbler of ice at his side. The efficacy of this remedy
was assured. And he demanded the bunch of newspapers he spied protruding
from my pocket.
The rest of us were engaged in various occupations: Mr. Trevor relating
experiences of steamboat days on the Ohio to Mrs. Cooke; Miss Trevor
buried in a serial in the Century; and Farrar and I taking an
inventory of fishing-tackle, when we were startled by a loud and profane
ejaculation. Mr. Cooke had hastily put down his glass and was staring at
the newspaper before him with eyes as large as after-dinner coffee-cups.
“Come here,” he shouted over at us. “Come here, Crocker,” he repeated,
seeing we were slow to move. “For God's sake, come here!”
In obedience to this emphatic summons I crossed the stream and drew near
to Mr. Cooke, who was busily pouring out another glass of whiskey to
tide him over this strange excitement. But, as Mr. Cooke was easily
excited and on such occasions always drank whiskey to quiet his nerves,
I thought nothing of it. He was sitting bolt upright and held out the
paper to me with a shaking hand, while he pointed to some headlines on
the first page. And this is what I read:
TREASURER TAKES A TRIP.
CHARLES WREXELL ALLEN, OF THE MILES STANDISH
BICYCLE COMPANY, GETS OFF WITH 100,000 DOLLARS.
DETECTIVES BAFFLED.
THE ABSCONDER A BACK BAY SOCIAL LEADER.
Half way down the column was a picture of Mr. Allen, a cut made from a
photograph, and, allowing for the crudities of newspaper reproduction,
it was a striking likeness of the Celebrity. Underneath was a short
description. Mr. Allen was five feet eleven (the Celebrity's height),
had a straight nose, square chin, dark hair and eyes, broad shoulders,
was dressed elaborately; in brief, tallied in every particular with the
Celebrity with the exception of the slight scar which Allen was thought
to have on his forehead.
The situation and all its ludicrous possibilities came over me with a
jump. It was too good to be true. Had Mr. Charles Wrexell Allen arrived
at Asquith and created a sensation with the man who stole his name I
should have been amply satisfied. But that Mr. Allen had been obliging
enough to abscond with a large sum of money was beyond dreaming!
I glanced at the rest of it: a history of the well-established company
followed, with all that Mr. Allen had done for it. The picture, by the
way, had been obtained from the St. Paul agent of the bicycle. After
doing due credit to the treasurer's abilities as a hustler there
followed a summary of his character, hitherto without reproach; but his
tastes were expensive ones. Mr. Allen's tendency to extravagance had
been noticed by the members of the Miles Standish Company, and some of
the older directors had on occasions remonstrated with him. But he had
been too valuable a man to let go, and it seems as treasurer he was
trusted implicitly. He was said to have more clothes than any man in
Boston.
I am used to thinking quickly, and by the time I had read this I had an
idea.
“What in hell do you make of that, Crocker?” cried my client, eyeing me
closely and repeating the question again and again, as was his wont when
agitated.
“It is certainly plain enough,” I replied, “but I should like to talk to
you before you decide to hand him over to the authorities.”
I thought I knew Mr. Cooke, and I was not mistaken.
“Authorities!” he roared. “Damn the authorities! There's my yacht, and
there's the Canadian border.” And he pointed to the north.
The others were pressing around us by this time, and had caught the
significant words which Mr. Cooke had uttered. I imagine that if my
client had stopped to think twice, which of course is a preposterous
condition, he would have confided his discovery only to Farrar and
to me. It was now out of the question to keep it from the rest of the
party, and Mr. Trevor got the headlines over my shoulder. I handed him
the sheet.
“Read it, Mr. Trevor,” said Mrs. Cooke.
Mr. Trevor, in a somewhat unsteady voice, read the headlines and
began the column, and they followed breathless with astonishment and
agitation. Once or twice the senator paused to frown upon the Celebrity
with a terrible sternness, thus directing all other eyes to him. His
demeanor was a study in itself. It may be surmised, from what I have
said of him, that there was a strain of the actor in his composition;
and I am prepared to make an affidavit that, secure in the knowledge
that he had witnesses present to attest his identity, he hugely enjoyed
the sensation he was creating. That he looked forward with a profound
pleasure to the stir which the disclosure that he was the author of The
Sybarites would make. His face wore a beatific smile.
As Mr. Trevor continued, his voice became firmer and his manner more
majestic. It was a task distinctly to his taste, and one might have
thought he was reading the sentence of a Hastings. I was standing next
to his daughter. The look of astonishment, perhaps of horror, which I
had seen on her face when her father first began to read had now faded
into something akin to wickedness. Did she wink? I can't say, never
before having had a young woman wink at me. But the next moment her
vinaigrette was rolling down the bank towards the brook, and I was after
it. I heard her close behind me. She must have read my intentions by a
kind of mental telepathy.
“Are you going to do it?” she whispered.
“Of course,” I answered. “To miss such a chance would be a downright
sin.”
There was a little awe in her laugh.
“Miss Thorn is the only obstacle,” I added, “and Mr. Cooke is our hope.
I think he will go by me.”
“Don't let Miss Thorn worry you,” she said as we climbed back.
“What do you mean?” I demanded. But she only shook her head. We were
at the top again, and Mr. Trevor was reading an appended despatch from
Buffalo, stating that Mr. Allen had been recognized there, in the latter
part of June, walking up and down the platform of the station, in a
smoking-jacket, and that he had climbed on the Chicago limited as
it pulled out. This may have caused the Celebrity to feel a trifle
uncomfortable.
“Ha!” exclaimed Mr. Trevor, as he put down the paper. “Mr. Cooke, do you
happen to have any handcuffs on the Maria?”
But my client was pouring out a stiff helping from the decanter, which
he still held in his hand. Then he approached the Celebrity.
“Don't let it worry you, old man,” said he, with intense earnestness.
“Don't let it worry you. You're my guest, and I'll see you safe out of
it, or bust.”
“Fenelon,” said Mrs. Cooke, gravely, “do you realize what you are
saying?”
“You're a clever one, Allen,” my client continued, and he backed away
the better to look him over; “you had nerve to stay as long as you did.”
The Celebrity laughed confidently.
“Cooke,” he replied, “I appreciate your generosity,--I really do. I know
no offence is meant. The mistake is, in fact, most pardonable.”
In Mr. Cooke amazement and admiration were clamoring for utterance.
“Damn me,” he sputtered, “if you're not the coolest embezzler I ever
saw.”
The Celebrity laughed again. Then he surveyed the circle.
“My friends,” he said, “this is certainly a most amazing coincidence;
one which, I assure you, surprises me no less than it does you. You have
no doubt remarked that I have my peculiarities. We all have.
“I flatter thyself I am not entirely unknown. And the annoyances imposed
upon me by a certain fame I have achieved had become such that some
months ago I began to crave the pleasures of the life of a private
man. I determined to go to some sequestered resort where my face was
unfamiliar. The possibility of being recognized at Asquith did not occur
to me. Fortunately I was. And a singular chance led me to take the name
of the man who has committed this crime, and who has the misfortune to
resemble me. I suppose that now,” he added impressively, “I shall have
to tell you who I am.”
He paused until these words should have gained their full effect. Then
he held up the edition de luxe from which he and Miss Thorn had been
reading.
“You may have heard, Mrs. Cooke,” said he, addressing himself to our
hostess, “you may perhaps have heard of the author of this book.”
Mrs. Cooke was a calm woman, and she read the name on the cover.
“Yes,” she said, “I have. And you claim to be he?”
“Ask my friend Crocker here,” he answered carelessly, no doubt exulting
that the scene was going off so dramatically. “I should indeed be in a
tight box,” he went on, “if there were not friends of mine here to help
me out.”
They turned to me.
“I am afraid I cannot,” I said with what soberness I could.
“What!” says he with a start. “What! you deny me?”
Miss Trevor had her tongue in her cheek. I bowed.
“I am powerless to speak, Mr. Allen,” I replied.
During this colloquy my client stood between us, looking from one to the
other. I well knew that his way of thinking would be with my testimony,
and that the gilt name on the edition de luxe had done little towards
convincing him of Mr. Allen's innocence. To his mind there was nothing
horrible or incongruous in the idea that a well-known author should be
a defaulter. It was perfectly possible. He shoved the glass of Scotch
towards the Celebrity, with a smile.
“Take this, old man,” he kindly insisted, “and you'll feel better.
What's the use of bucking when you're saddled with a thing like that?”
And he pointed to the paper. “Besides, they haven't caught you yet, by a
damned sight.”
The Celebrity waved aside the proffered tumbler.
“This is an infamous charge, and you know it, Crocker,” he cried. “If
you don't, you ought to, as a lawyer. This isn't any time to have fun
with a fellow.”
“My dear sir,” I said, “I have charged you with nothing whatever.”
He turned his back on me in complete disgust. And he came face to face
with Miss Trevor.
“Miss Trevor, too, knows something of me,” he said.
“You forget, Mr. Allen,” she answered sweetly, “you forget that I have
given you my promise not to reveal what I know.”
The Celebrity chafed, for this was as damaging a statement as could well
be uttered against him. But Miss Thorn was his trump card, and she now
came forward.
“This is ridiculous, Mr. Crocker, simply ridiculous,” said she.
“I agree with you most heartily, Miss Thorn,” I replied.
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Miss Thorn, and she drew her lips together, “pure
nonsense!”
“Nonsense or not, Marian,” Mr. Cooke interposed, “we are wasting
valuable time. The police are already on the scent, I'll bet my hat.”
“Fenelon!” Mrs. Cooke remonstrated.
“And do you mean to say in soberness, Uncle Fenelon, that you believe
the author of The Sybarites to be a defaulter?” said Miss Thorn.
“It is indeed hard to believe Mr. Allen a criminal,” Mr. Trevor broke in
for the first time. “I think it only right that he should be allowed
to clear himself before he is put to further inconvenience, and perhaps
injustice, by any action we may take in the matter.”
Mr. Cooke sniffed suspiciously at the word “action.”
“What action do you mean?” he demanded.
“Well,” replied Mr. Trevor, with some hesitation, “before we take any
steps, that is, notify the police.”
“Notify the police!” cried my client, his face red with a generous
anger. “I have never yet turned a guest over to the police,” he said
proudly, “and won't, not if I know it. I'm not that kind.”
Who shall criticise Mr. Cooke's code of morality?
“Fenelon,” said his wife, “you must remember you have never yet
entertained a guest of a larcenous character. No embezzlers up to the
present. Marian,” she continued, turning to Miss Thorn, “you spoke as
if you might, be able to throw some light upon this matter. Do you know
whether this gentleman is Charles Wrexell Allen, or whether he is the
author? In short, do you know who he is?”
The Celebrity lighted a cigarette. Miss Thorn said indignantly, “Upon my
word, Aunt Maria, I thought that you, at least, would know better than
to credit this silly accusation. He has been a guest at your house, and
I am astonished that you should doubt his word.”
Mrs. Cooke looked at her niece perplexedly.
“You must remember, Marian,” she said gently, “that I know nothing about
him, where he came from, or who he is. Nor does any one at Asquith,
except perhaps Miss Trevor, by her own confession. And you do not seem
inclined to tell what you know, if indeed you know anything.”
Upon this Miss Thorn became more indignant still, and Mrs. Cooke went on
“Gentlemen, as a rule, do not assume names, especially other people's.
They are usually proud of their own. Mr. Allen appears among us, from
the clouds, as it were, and in due time we learn from a newspaper that
he has committed a defalcation. And, furthermore, the paper contains a
portrait and an accurate description which put the thing beyond doubt. I
ask you, is it reasonable for him to state coolly after all this that he
is another man? That he is a well-known author? It's an absurdity. I was
not born yesterday, my dear.”
“It is most reasonable under the circumstances,” replied Miss Thorn,
warmly. “Extraordinary? Of course it's extraordinary. And too long to
explain to a prejudiced audience, who can't be expected to comprehend
the character of a genius, to understand the yearning of a famous man
for a little quiet.”
Mrs. Cooke looked grave.
“Marian, you forget yourself,” she said.
“Oh, I am tired of it, Aunt Maria,” cried Miss Thorn; “if he takes my
advice, he will refuse to discuss it farther.”
She did not seem to be aware that she had put forth no argument
whatever, save a woman's argument. And I was intensely surprised that
her indignation should have got the better of her in this way, having
always supposed her clear-headed in the extreme. A few words from her,
such as I supposed she would have spoken, had set the Celebrity right
with all except Mr. Cooke. To me it was a clear proof that the Celebrity
had turned her head, and her mind with it.
The silence was broken by an uncontrollable burst of laughter from Miss
Trevor. She was quickly frowned down by her father, who reminded her
that this was not a comedy.
“And, Mr. Allen,” he said, “if you have anything to say, or any evidence
to bring forward, now is the time to do it.”
He appeared to forget that I was the district attorney.
The Celebrity had seated himself on the trunk of a tree, and was blowing
out the smoke in clouds. He was inclined to take Miss Thorn's advice,
for he made a gesture of weariness with his cigarette, in the use of
which he was singularly eloquent.
“Tell me, Mr. Trevor,” said he, “why I should sit before you as a
tribunal? Why I should take the trouble to clear myself of a senseless
charge? My respect for you inclines me to the belief that you are
laboring under a momentary excitement; for when you reflect that I am a
prominent, not to say famous, author, you will realize how absurd it is
that I should be an embezzler, and why I decline to lower myself by an
explanation.”
Mr. Trevor picked up the paper and struck it.
“Do you refuse to say anything in the face of such evidence as that?” he
cried.
“It is not a matter for refusal, Mr. Trevor. It is simply that I cannot
admit the possibility of having committed the crime.”
“Well, sir,” said the senator, his black necktie working out of place
as his anger got the better of him, “I am to believe, then, because you
claim to be the author of a few society novels, that you are infallible?
Let me tell you that the President of the United States himself is
liable to impeachment, and bound to disprove any charge he may be
accused of. What in Halifax do I care for your divine-right-of-authors
theory? I'll continue to think you guilty until you are shown to be
innocent.”
Suddenly the full significance of the Celebrity's tactics struck Mr.
Cooke, and he reached out and caught hold of Mr. Trevor's coattails.
“Hold on, old man,” said he; “Allen isn't going to be ass enough to own
up to it. Don't you see we'd all be jugged and fined for assisting a
criminal over the border? It's out of consideration for us.”
Mr. Trevor looked sternly over his shoulder at Mr. Cooke.
“Do you mean to say, sir, seriously,” he asked, “that, for the sake of
a misplaced friendship for this man, and a misplaced sense of honor,
you are bound to shield a guest, though a criminal? That you intend to
assist him to escape from justice? I insist, for my own protection and
that of my daughter, as well as for that of the others present that,
since he refuses to speak, we must presume him guilty and turn him
over.”
Mr. Trevor turned to Mrs. Cooke, as if relying on her support.
“Fenelon,” said she, “I have never sought to influence your actions when
your friends were concerned, and I shall not begin now. All I ask of you
is to consider the consequences of your intention.”
These words from Mrs. Cooke had much more weight with my client than Mr.
Trevor's blustering demands.
“Maria, my dear,” he said, with a deferential urbanity, “Mr. Allen is my
guest, and a gentleman. When a gentleman gives his word that he is not a
criminal, it is sufficient.”
The force of this, for some reason, did not overwhelm his wife; and her
lip curled a little, half in contempt, half in risibility.
“Pshaw, Fenelon,” said she, “what a fraud you are. Why is it you wish to
get Mr. Allen over the border, then?” A question which might well have
staggered a worthier intellect.
“Why, my dear,” answered my client, “I wish to save Mr. Allen the
inconvenience, not to say the humiliation, of being brought East in
custody and strapped with a pair of handcuffs. Let him take a shooting
trip to the great Northwest until the real criminal is caught.”
“Well, Fenelon,” replied Mrs. Cooke, unable to repress a smile, “one
might as well try to argue with a turn-stile or a weather-vane. I wash
my hands of it.”
But Mr. Trevor, who was both a self-made man and a Western politician,
was far from being satisfied. He turned to me with a sweep of the arm he
had doubtless learned in the Ohio State Senate.
“Mr. Crocker,” he cried, “are you, as attorney of this district, going
to aid and abet in the escape of a fugitive from justice?”
“Mr. Trevor,” said I, “I will take the course in this matter which seems
fit to me, and without advice from any one.”
He wheeled on Farrar, repeated the question, and got a like answer.
Brought to bay for a time, he glared savagely around him while groping
for further arguments.
But at this point the Four appeared on the scene, much the worse for
thickets, and clamoring for luncheon. They had five small fish between
them which they wanted Miss Thorn to cook.