“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.