"Trevor," cried Mr. Cooke, with great fervor, "I take it all back. You're a true, public-spirited old sport." But the senator had not yet reached that extreme of degradation where it is pleasurable to be congratulated on wickedness. My client added up the figures and rubbed his hands. I regret to say that the aggregate would have bought up three small police organizations, body and soul. "Pull up, Farrar, old man," he shouted. Farrar released the wheel and threw the Maria into the wind. With the sail cracking and the big boom dodging over our heads, we watched the tug as she drew nearer and nearer, until we could hear the loud beating of her engines. On one side some men were making ready to lower a boat, and then a conspicuous figure in blue stood out by the davits. Then came the faint tinkle of a bell, and the H Sinclair, of Far Harbor, glided up and thrashed the water scarce a biscuit-throw away. "Hello, there!" the man in uniform called out. It was Captain McCann, chief of the Far Harbor police. Mr. Cooke waved his cigar politely. "Is that Mr. Cooke's yacht, the Maria? "The same," said Mr. Cooke. "I'm fearing I'll have to come aboard you, Mr. Cooke." "All right, old man, glad to have you," said my client. This brought a smile to McCann's face as he got into his boat. We were all standing in the cockpit, save the Celebrity, who was just inside of the cabin door. I had time to note that he was pale, and no more: I must have been pale myself. A few strokes brought the chief to the Maria's stern. "It's not me that likes to interfere with a gent's pleasure party, but business is business," said he, as he climbed aboard. My client's hospitality was oriental. "Make yourself at home, old man," he said, a box of his largest and blackest cigars in his hand. And these he advanced towards McCann before the knot was tied in the painter. Then a wave of self-reproach swept over me. Was it possible that I, like Mr. Trevor, had been deprived of all the morals I had ever possessed? Could it be that the district attorney was looking calmly on while Mr. Cooke wilfully corrupted the Far Harbor chief-of-police? As agonizing a minute as I ever had in my life was that which it took McCann to survey those cigars. His broad features became broader still, as a huge, red hand was reached out. I saw it close lingeringly over the box, and then Mr. Cooke had struck a match. The chief stepped over the washboard onto the handsome turkey-red cushions on the seats, and thus he came face to face with me. "Holy fathers!" he exclaimed. "Is it you who are here, Mr. Crocker?" And he pulled off his cap. "No other, McCann," said I, with what I believe was a most pitiful attempt at braggadocio. McCann began to puff at his cigar. Clouds of smoke came out of his face and floated down the wind. He was so visibly embarrassed that I gained a little courage. "And what brings you here?" I demanded. He scrutinized me in perplexity. "I think you're guessing, sir."