Before I could reply there came a scuffling sound from the bank above us,
and the snapping of branches and twigs. It was Mr. Cooke. His descent,
the personal conduction of which he lost half-way down, was irregular and
spasmodic, and a rude concussion at the bottom knocked off a choice bit
of profanity which was balanced on the tip of his tongue.

"Tobogganing is a little out of season," said his niece, laughing
heartily.

Mr. Cooke brushed himself off, picked up the glasses which he had dropped
in his flight and pushed them into my hands. Then he pointed lakeward
with bulging eyes.

"Crocker, old man," he said in a loud whisper, "they tell me that is an
Asquith cat-boat."

I followed his finger and saw for the first time a sail-boat headed for
the island, then about two miles off shore. I raised the glasses.

"Yes," I said, "the Scimitar."

"That's what Farrar said," cried he.

"And what about it?" I asked.

"What about it?" he ejaculated. "Why, it's a detective come for Allen.
I knew sure as hell if they got as far as Asquith they wouldn't stop
there. And that's the fastest sail-boat he could hire there, isn't it?"

I replied that it was. He seized me by the shoulder and began dragging