Mr. Cooke paid no attention to this speech. His face became radiant.
“Didn't any of you fellows strike a cave, or a hollow tree, or something of that sort, knocking around this morning?”
One man slapped his knee.
“The very place,” he cried. “I fell into it,” and he showed a rent in his trousers corroboratively. “It's big enough to hold twenty of Allen, and the detective doesn't live that could find it.”
“Hustle him off, quick,” said Mr. Cooke.
The mandate was obeyed as literally as though Robin Hood himself had given it. The Celebrity disappeared into the forest, carried rather than urged towards his destined place of confinement.
The commotion had brought Mr. Trevor to the spot. He caught sight of the Celebrity's back between the trees, then he looked at the cat-boat entering the cove, a man in the stern preparing to pull in the tender.
He intercepted Mr. Cooke on his way to the beach.
“What have you done with Mr. Allen?” he asked, in a menacing voice.
“Good God,” said Mr. Cooke, whose contempt for Mr. Trevor was now infinite, “you talk as if I were the governor of the state. What the devil could I do with him?”