The Essential Winston Churchill Collection - Winston Churchill

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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.

      "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."

      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.

      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."

      Mr. Trevor picked up the paper and struck it.

      "Do you refuse to say anything in the face of such evidence as that?" he cried.

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