But my client was pouring out a stiff helping from the decanter, which he still held in his hand.  Then he approached the Celebrity.

“Don’t let it worry you, old man,” said he, with intense earnestness.  “Don’t let it worry you.  You’re my guest, and I’ll see you safe out of it, or bust.”

“Fenelon,” said Mrs. Cooke, gravely, “do you realize what you are saying?”

“You’re a clever one, Allen,” my client continued, and he backed away the better to look him over; “you had nerve to stay as long as you did.”

The Celebrity laughed confidently.

“Cooke,” he replied, “I appreciate your generosity,—­I really do.  I know no offence is meant.  The mistake is, in fact, most pardonable.”

In Mr. Cooke amazement and admiration were clamoring for utterance.

“Damn me,” he sputtered, “if you’re not the coolest embezzler I ever saw.”

The Celebrity laughed again.  Then he surveyed the circle.

“My friends,” he said, “this is certainly a most amazing coincidence; one which, I assure you, surprises me no less than it does you.  You have no doubt remarked that I have my peculiarities.  We all have.

“I flatter thyself I am not entirely unknown.  And the annoyances imposed upon me by a certain fame I have achieved had become such that some months ago I began to crave the pleasures of the life of a private man.  I determined to go to some sequestered resort where my face was unfamiliar.  The possibility of being recognized at Asquith did not occur to me.  Fortunately I was.  And a singular chance led me to take the name of the man who has committed this crime, and who has the misfortune to resemble me.  I suppose that now,” he added impressively, “I shall have to tell you who I am.”

He paused until these words should have gained their full effect.  Then he held up the edition de luxe from which he and Miss Thorn had been reading.

“You may have heard, Mrs. Cooke,” said he, addressing himself to our hostess, “you may perhaps have heard of the author of this book.”

Mrs. Cooke was a calm woman, and she read the name on the cover.

“Yes,” she said, “I have.  And you claim to be he?”

“Ask my friend Crocker here,” he answered carelessly, no doubt exulting that the scene was going off so dramatically.  “I should indeed be in a tight box,” he went on, “if there were not friends of mine here to help me out.”

They turned to me.

“I am afraid I cannot,” I said with what soberness I could.

“What!” says he with a start.  “What! you deny me?”

Miss Trevor had her tongue in her cheek.  I bowed.

“I am powerless to speak, Mr. Allen,” I replied.

During this colloquy my client stood between us, looking from one to the other.  I well knew that his way of thinking would be with my testimony, and that the gilt name on the edition de luxe had done little towards convincing him of Mr. Allen’s innocence.  To his mind there was nothing horrible or incongruous in the idea that a well-known author should be a defaulter.  It was perfectly possible.  He shoved the glass of Scotch towards the Celebrity, with a smile.