stones, and the thought of the Celebrity, alone in a dark cave in the middle of the island, began to prey upon me.  I was not designed for a practical joker, and I take it that pity is a part of every self-respecting man’s composition.  In the cool of the night season the ludicrous side of the matter did not appeal to me quite as strongly as in the glare of day.  A joke should never be pushed to cruelty.  It was in vain that I argued I had no direct hand in the concealing of him; I felt my responsibility quite as heavy upon me.  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, now that the fire had gone out.  Miss Trevor began to philosophize.

“Such practical pleasantries as this,” she said, “are like infernal machines:  they often blow up the people that start them.  And they are next to impossible to steer.”

“Perhaps it is just as well not to assume we are the instruments of Providence,” I said.

Here we ran into Miss Thorn, who was carrying a lantern.