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.”

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.