"Whiskey!" shouted Mr. Cooke. "Get him a glass of Scotch!"
But McCann held up his hand.
"Holy Saint Patrick!" he said, in a husky voice, "it's upset I am,
bottom upwards. Will ye listen to this?"
"'Drew is your man. Reddish hair and long side whiskers, gray
clothes. Pretends to represent summer hotel syndicate. Allen at
Asquith unknown and harmless.
"' (Signed.) Everhardt."'
"Sew me up," said Mr. Cooke; "if that don't beat hell!"
CHAPTER XXI
In this world of lies the good and the bad are so closely intermingled
that frequently one is the means of obtaining the other. Therefore, I
wish very freely to express my obligations to the Celebrity for any share
he may have had in contributing to the greatest happiness of my life.
Marian and I were married the very next month, October, at my client's
palatial residence of Mohair. This was at Mr. Cooke's earnest wish: and
since Marian was Mrs. Cooke's own niece, and an orphan, there seemed no
good reason why my client should not be humored in the matter. As for
Marian and me, we did not much care whether we were married at Mohair or
the City of Mexico. Mrs. Cooke, I think, had a secret preference for
Germantown.
Mr. Cooke quite over-reached himself in that wedding.
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