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.
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