"If you were I, would you go?" Miss Trevor asked doubtfully.

"Of course," I replied.

"But the consequences may be unpleasant."

"Don't let them," I said. "Of what use is tact to a woman if not for
just such occasions?"

My invitation had this characteristic note tacked on the end of it

"DEAR CROCKER: Where are you? Where is the judge? F. F. C."

I corralled the judge, and we started off across the fields, in no very
mild state of fear of that gentleman's wife, whose vigilance was seldom
relaxed. And thus we came by a circuitous route to Mohair, the judge
occupied by his own guilty thoughts, and I by others not less disturbing.
My client welcomed the judge with that warmth of manner which grappled so
many of his friends to his heart, and they disappeared together into the
Ethiopian card-room, which was filled with the assegais and exclamation
point shields Mr. Cooke had had made at the Sawmill at Beaverton.

I learned from one of the lords-in-waiting loafing about the hall that
Mrs. Cooke was out on the golf links, chaperoning some of the Asquith
young women whose mothers had not seen fit to ostracize Mohair. Mr.
Cooke's ten friends were with them. But this discreet and dignified
servant could not reveal the whereabouts of Miss Thorn and of Mr. Allen,
both of whom I was decidedly anxious to avoid. I was much disgusted,
therefore, to come upon the Celebrity in the smoking-room, writing
rapidly, with, sheets of manuscript piled beside him. And he was quite