I assured him that it was.
“Then where is he, Mr. Crocker?”
“God only knows!” I replied, with fervor. “I don't, McCann.”
The chief was satisfied. He went back into the cabin, and Mr. Cooke, in the exuberance of his joy, produced champagne. McCann had heard of my client and of his luxurious country place, and moreover it was the first time he had ever been on a yellow-plush yacht. He tarried. He drank Mr. Cooke's health and looked around him in wonder and awe, and his remarks were worthy of record. These sayings and the thought of the author of The Sybarites stifling below with his mouth to an auger-hole kept us in a continual state of merriment. And at last our visitor rose to go.
As he was stepping over the side, Mr. Cooke laid hold of a brass button and pressed a handful of the black cigars upon him.
“My regards to the detective, old man,” said he.
McCann stared.
“My regards to Drew,” my client insisted.
“Oh!” said McCann, his face lighting up, “him with the whiskers, what came from Bear Island in a cat-boat. Sure, he wasn't no detective, sir.”
“What was he? A police commissioner?”