Mrs. Cooke looked at her niece perplexedly.

“You must remember, Marian,” she said gently, “that I know nothing about him, where he came from, or who he is.  Nor does any one at Asquith, except perhaps Miss Trevor, by her own confession.  And you do not seem inclined to tell what you know, if indeed you know anything.”

Upon this Miss Thorn became more indignant still, and Mrs. Cooke went on “Gentlemen, as a rule, do not assume names, especially other people’s.  They are usually proud of their own.  Mr. Allen appears among us, from the clouds, as it were, and in due time we learn from a newspaper that he has committed a defalcation.  And, furthermore, the paper contains a portrait and an accurate description which put the thing beyond doubt.  I ask you, is it reasonable for him to state coolly after all this that he is another man?  That he is a well-known author?  It’s an absurdity.  I was not born yesterday, my dear.”

“It is most reasonable under the circumstances,” replied Miss Thorn, warmly.  “Extraordinary?  Of course it’s extraordinary.  And too long to explain to a prejudiced audience, who can’t be expected to comprehend the character of a genius, to understand the yearning of a famous man for a little quiet.”

Mrs. Cooke looked grave.

“Marian, you forget yourself,” she said.

“Oh, I am tired of it, Aunt Maria,” cried Miss Thorn; “if he takes my advice, he will refuse to discuss it farther.”

She did not seem to be aware that she had put forth no argument whatever, save a woman’s argument.  And I was intensely surprised that her indignation should have got the better of her in this way, having always supposed her clear-headed in the extreme.  A few words from her, such as I supposed she would have spoken, had set the Celebrity right with all except Mr. Cooke.  To me it was a clear proof that the Celebrity had turned her head, and her mind with it.

The silence was broken by an uncontrollable burst of laughter from Miss Trevor.  She was quickly frowned down by her father, who reminded her that this was not a comedy.

“And, Mr. Allen,” he said, “if you have anything to say, or any evidence to bring forward, now is the time to do it.”

He appeared to forget that I was the district attorney.

The Celebrity had seated himself on the trunk of a tree, and was blowing out the smoke in clouds.  He was inclined to take Miss Thorn’s advice, for he made a gesture of weariness with his cigarette, in the use of which he was singularly eloquent.

“Tell me, Mr. Trevor,” said he, “why I should sit before you as a tribunal?  Why I should take the trouble to clear myself of a senseless charge?  My respect for you inclines me to the belief that you are laboring under a momentary excitement; for when you reflect that I am a prominent, not to say famous, author, you will realize how absurd it is that I should be an embezzler, and why I decline to lower myself by an explanation.”