“This is an infamous charge, and you know it, Crocker,” he cried.  “If you don’t, you ought to, as a lawyer.  This isn’t any time to have fun with a fellow.”

“My dear sir,” I said, “I have charged you with nothing whatever.”

He turned his back on me in complete disgust.  And he came face to face with Miss Trevor.

“Miss Trevor, too, knows something of me,” he said.

“You forget, Mr. Allen,” she answered sweetly, “you forget that I have given you my promise not to reveal what I know.”

The Celebrity chafed, for this was as damaging a statement as could well be uttered against him.  But Miss Thorn was his trump card, and she now came forward.

“This is ridiculous, Mr. Crocker, simply ridiculous,” said she.

“I agree with you most heartily, Miss Thorn,” I replied.

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Miss Thorn, and she drew her lips together, “pure nonsense!”

“Nonsense or not, Marian,” Mr. Cooke interposed, “we are wasting valuable time.  The police are already on the scent, I’ll bet my hat.”

“Fenelon!” Mrs. Cooke remonstrated.

“And do you mean to say in soberness, Uncle Fenelon, that you believe the author of The Sybarites to be a defaulter?” said Miss Thorn.

“It is indeed hard to believe Mr. Allen a criminal,” Mr. Trevor broke in for the first time.  “I think it only right that he should be allowed to clear himself before he is put to further inconvenience, and perhaps injustice, by any action we may take in the matter.”

Mr. Cooke sniffed suspiciously at the word “action.”

“What action do you mean?” he demanded.

“Well,” replied Mr. Trevor, with some hesitation, “before we take any steps, that is, notify the police.”

“Notify the police!” cried my client, his face red with a generous anger.  “I have never yet turned a guest over to the police,” he said proudly, “and won’t, not if I know it.  I’m not that kind.”

Who shall criticise Mr. Cooke’s code of morality?

“Fenelon,” said his wife, “you must remember you have never yet entertained a guest of a larcenous character.  No embezzlers up to the present.  Marian,” she continued, turning to Miss Thorn, “you spoke as if you might, be able to throw some light upon this matter.  Do you know whether this gentleman is Charles Wrexell Allen, or whether he is the author?  In short, do you know who he is?”

The Celebrity lighted a cigarette.  Miss Thorn said indignantly, “Upon my word, Aunt Maria, I thought that you, at least, would know better than to credit this silly accusation.  He has been a guest at your house, and I am astonished that you should doubt his word.”

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.”