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.

“Take this, old man,” he kindly insisted, “and you’ll feel better.  What’s the use of bucking when you’re saddled with a thing like that?” And he pointed to the paper.  “Besides, they haven’t caught you yet, by a damned sight.”

The Celebrity waved aside the proffered tumbler.

“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.”