culating frantically, a vision of
coat-tails flapping in the breeze. Then the yacht heeled on her course
and forged lakewards.

"Row, Mr. Crocker, row! they are leaving us!" cried Miss Trevor, in
alarm.

I hastened to reassure her.

"Farrar is probably trying something," I said. "They will be turning
presently."

This is just what they did not do. Once out of the inlet, they went
about and headed northward, up the coast, and we remained watching them
until Mr. Trevor became a mere oscillating black speck against the sail.

"What can it mean?" asked Miss Thorn.

I had not so much as an idea.

"They certainly won't desert us, at any rate," I said. "We had better go
ashore again and wait."

The Celebrity was seated on the beach, and he was whittling. Now
whittling is an occupation which speaks of a contented frame of mind,
and the Maria's departure did not seem to have annoyed or disturbed him.

"Castaways," says he, gayly, "castaways on a foreign shore. Two
delightful young ladies, a bright young lawyer, a fugitive from justice,
no chaperon, and nothing to eat. And what a situation for a short story,
if only an author were permitted to make use of his own experiences!"

"Only you don't know how it will end," Miss Thorn put in.

The Celebrity glanced up at her.

"I have a guess," said he, with a smile.

"Is it true," Miss Trevor asked, "that a story must contain the element
of love in order to find favor with the public?"

"That generally recommends it, especially to your sex, Miss Trevor," he
replied jocosely.

Miss Trevor appeared interested.

"And tell me," she went on, "isn't it sometimes the case that you
start out intent on one ending, and that your artistic sense of what is
fitting demands another?"

"Don't be silly, Irene," said Miss Thorn. She was skipping flat pebbles
over the water, and doing it capitally, too.

I thought the Celebrity rather resented the question.

"That sometimes happens, of course," said he, carelessly. He produced
his inevitable gold cigarette case and held it out to me. "Be sociable
for once, and have one," he said.

I accepted.

"Do you know," he continued, lighting me a match, "it beats me why you
and Miss Trevor put this thing up on me. You have enjoyed it, naturally,
and if you wanted to make me out a donkey you succeeded rather well. I
used to think that Crocker was a pretty good friend of mine when I went
to his dinners in New York. And I once had every rea