Mr. Trevor, had been deprived of all the morals I had ever possessed?
Could it be that the district attorney was looking calmly on while Mr.
Cooke wilfully corrupted the Far Harbor chief-of-police? As agonizing a
minute as I ever had in my life was that which it took McCann to survey
those cigars. His broad features became broader still, as a huge, red
hand was reached out. I saw it close lingeringly over the box, and then
Mr. Cooke had struck a match. The chief stepped over the washboard onto
the handsome turkey-red cushions on the seats, and thus he came face to
face with me.

"Holy fathers!" he exclaimed. "Is it you who are here, Mr. Crocker?"
And he pulled off his cap.

"No other, McCann," said I, with what I believe was a most pitiful
attempt at braggadocio.

McCann began to puff at his cigar. Clouds of smoke came out of his face
and floated down the wind. He was so visibly embarrassed that I gained a
little courage.

"And what brings you here?" I demanded.

He scrutinized me in perplexity.

"I think you're guessing, sir."

"Never a guess, McCann. You'll have to explain yourself."

McCann had once had a wholesome respect for me. But it looked now as if
the bottom was dropping out of it.