My client, in spite of the ominous condition of his opal, was not slow to make his intentions exceedingly clear. For Mr. Cooke was first and last, and always, a gentleman. After that you might call him anything you pleased. Meditatively he screwed up his glasses and buckled them into the case, and then he descended to the cockpit. It was the Celebrity he singled out of the party. “Allen,” said he, when he stood before him, “I want to impress on you that my word's gold. I've stuck to you thus far, and I'll be damned now if I throw you over, like they did Jonah.” Mr. Cooke spoke with a fine dignity that in itself was impressive, and when he had finished he looked about him until his eye rested on Mr. Trevor, as though opposition were to come from that quarter. And the senator gave every sign of another eruption. But the Celebrity, either from lack of appreciation of my client's loyalty, or because of the nervousness which was beginning to show itself in his demeanor, despite an effort to hide it, returned no answer. He turned on his heel and resumed his seat in the cabin. Mr. Cooke was visibly affected. “I'd sooner lose my whip hand than go back on him now,” he declared. Then Vesuvius began to rumble. “Mr. Cooke,” said the senator, “may I suggest something which seems pertinent to me, though it does not appear to have occurred to you?” His tone was the calm one that the heroes used in the Celebrity's novels when they were about to drop on and annihilate wicked men. “Certainly, sir,” my client replied briskly, bringing himself up on his way back to the overhang. “You have announced your intention of 'standing by' Mr. Allen, as you express it. Have you reflected that there are some others who deserve to be consulted and considered beside Mr. Allen and yourself?” Mr. Cooke was puzzled at this change of front, and unused, moreover, to that veiled irony of parliamentary expression. “Talk English, my friend,” said he. “In plain words, sir, Mr. Allen is a criminal who ought to be locked up; he is a menace to society. You, who have a reputation, I am given to understand, for driving four horses, have nothing to lose by a scandal, while I have worked all my life for the little I have achieved, and have a daughter to think about. I will neither stand by Mr. Allen nor by you.” Mr. Cooke was ready with a retort when the true significance of this struck him. Things were a trifle different now. The tables had turned since leaving the island, and the senator held it in his power to ruin our one remaining chance of escape. Strangely enough, he missed the cause of Mr. Cooke's hesitation. “Look here, old man,” said my client, biting off another cigar, “I'm a first-rate fellow when you get to know me, and I'd do the same for you as I'm doing for Allen.” “I daresay, sir, I daresay,” said the other, a trifle mollified; “I don't claim that you're not acting as you think right.”