"I hope it's news I'm telling you," he said soberly; "I'm hoping it's
news when I say that I'm here for Mr. Charles Wrexell Allen,--that's the
gentleman's name. He's after taking a hundred thousand dollars away from
Boston." Then he turned to Mr. Cooke. "The gentleman was aboard your
boat, sir, when you left that country place of yours,--what d'ye call it?
--Mohair? Thank you, sir." And he wiped the water from his brow. "And
they're telling me he was on Bear Island with ye? Sure, sir, and I can't
see why a gentleman of your standing would be wanting to get him over the
border. But I must do my duty. Begging your pardon, Mr. Crocker," he
added, with a bow to me.

"Certainly, McCann," I said.

For a space there was only the bumping and straining of the yacht and the
swish of the water against her sides. Then the chief spoke again.

"It will be saving you both trouble and inconvenience, Mr. Crocker, if
you give him up, sir."

What did the man mean? Why in the name of the law didn't he make a move?
I was conscious that my client was fumbling in his clothes for the
wallet; that he had muttered an invitation for the chief to go inside.
McCann smoked uneasily.

"I don't want to search the boat, sir."

At these words we all turned with one accord towards the cabin. I felt
Farrar gripping my arm tightly from behind.

The Celebrity had disappeared!