seemed the best we could do
for an anchorage, although it was shallow and full of rocks. As we were
changing our course to run in, Mr. Cooke appeared, bundled up in his
reefer. He was in the best of spirits, and was good enough to concur
with our plans.

"Now, sir," asked Farrar, "what do you propose to do with Allen?"

But our client only chuckled.

"Wait and see, old man," he said; "I've got that all fixed."

"Well," Farrar remarked, when he had gone in again, "he has steered it
deuced well so far. I think we can trust him."

It was dark when we dropped anchor, a very tired party indeed; and as
the Maria could not accommodate us all with sleeping quarters, Mr. Cooke
decided that the ladies should have the cabin, since the night was cold.
And so it might have been, had not Miss Thorn flatly refused to sleep
there. The cabin was stuffy, she said, and so she carried her point.
Leaving Farrar and one of Mr. Cooke's friends to take care of the yacht,
the rest of us went ashore, built a roaring fire and raised a tent, and
proceeded to make ourselves as comfortable as circumstances would
allow. The sense of relief over the danger passed produced a kind of
lightheartedness amongst us, and the topics broached at supper would
not have been inappropriate at a friendly dinner party. As we were
separating for the night Miss Thorn said to me:

"I am so happy for your sake, Mr. Crocker, that he was not discovered."

For my sake! Could she really have meant it, after all? I went to sleep
thinking of that sentence, beside my client beneath the trees. And it
was first in my thoughts when I awoke.

As we dipped our faces in the brook the next morning my client laughed
softly to himself between the gasps, and I knew that he had in mind the
last consummate touch to his successful enterprise. And the revelation
came when the party were assembled at breakfast. Mr. Cooke stood up, and
drawing from his pocket a small and mysterious paper parcel he forthwith
delivered himself in the tone and manner which had so endeared him to
the familiars of the Lake House bar.

"I'm not much for words, as you all know," said he, with becoming
modesty, "and I don't set up to be an orator. I am just what you see
here,--a damned plain man. And there's only one virtue that I lay any
claim to,--no one can say that I ever went back on a friend. I want to
thank all of you (looking at the senator) for what you have done for
me and Allen. It's not for us