Perhaps bears still remained in these woods. And if a bear should devour
the author of The Sybarites, would the world ever forgive me? Could I
ever repay the debt to the young women of these United States?
To speak truth, I expected every moment to see him appear. Why, in the
name of all his works, did he stay there? Nothing worse could befall him
than to go to Far Harbor with Drew, where our words concerning his
identity would be taken. And what an advertisement this would be for the
great author. The Sybarites, now selling by thousands, would increase
its sales to ten thousands. Ah, there was the rub. The clue to his
remaining in the cave was this very kink in the Celebrity's character.
There was nothing Bohemian in that character; it yearned after the
eminently respectable. Its very eccentricities were within the limits of
good form. The Celebrity shunned the biscuits and beer of the literary
clubs, and his books were bound for the boudoir. To have it proclaimed
in the sensational journals that the hands of this choice being had been
locked for grand larceny was a thought too horrible to entertain. His
very manservant would have cried aloud against it. Better a hundred
nights in a cave than one such experience!

Miss Trevor's behavior that evening was so unrestful as to lead me to
believe that she, too, was going through qualms of sympathy for the
victim. As we were breaking up for the evening she pulled my sleeve.

"Don't you think we have carried our joke a little too far, Mr. Crocker?"
she whispered uneasily. "I can't bear to think of him in that
terrible place."

"It will do him a world of good," I replied, assuming a gayety I did not
feel. It is not pleasant to reflect that some day one's own folly might
place one in alike situation. And the night was dismally cool and windy,