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.

“It is not a matter for refusal, Mr. Trevor.  It is simply that I cannot admit the possibility of having committed the crime.”

“Well, sir,” said the senator, his black necktie working out of place as his anger got the better of him, “I am to believe, then, because you claim to be the author of a few society novels, that you are infallible?  Let me tell you that the President of the United States himself is liable to impeachment, and bound to disprove any charge he may be accused of.  What in Halifax do I care for your divine-right-of-authors theory?  I’ll continue to think you guilty until you are shown to be innocent.”

Suddenly the full significance of the Celebrity’s tactics struck Mr. Cooke, and he reached out and caught hold of Mr. Trevor’s coattails.  “Hold on, old man,” said he; “Allen isn’t going to be ass enough to own up to it.  Don’t you see we’d all be jugged and fined for assisting a criminal over the border?  It’s out of consideration for us.”

Mr. Trevor looked sternly over his shoulder at Mr. Cooke.

“Do you mean to say, sir, seriously,” he asked, “that, for the sake of a misplaced friendship for this man, and a misplaced sense of honor, you are bound to shield a guest, though a criminal?  That you intend to assist him to escape from justice?  I insist, for my own protection and that of my daughter, as well as for that of the others present that, since he refuses to speak, we must presume him guilty and turn him over.”

Mr. Trevor turned to Mrs. Cooke, as if relying on her support.

“Fenelon,” said she, “I have never sought to influence your actions when your friends were concerned, and I shall not begin now.  All I ask of you is to consider the consequences of your intention.”

These words from Mrs. Cooke had much more weight with my client than Mr. Trevor’s blustering demands.

“Maria, my dear,” he said, with a deferential urbanity, “Mr. Allen is my guest, and a gentleman.  When a gentleman gives his word that he is not a criminal, it is sufficient.”

The force of this, for some reason, did not overwhelm his wife; and her lip curled a little, half in contempt, half in risibility.

“Pshaw, Fenelon,” said she, “what a fraud you are.  Why is it you wish to get Mr. Allen over the border, then?” A question which might well have staggered a worthier intellect.

“Why, my dear,” answered my client, “I wish to save Mr. Allen the inconvenience, not to say the humiliation, of being brought East in custody and strapped with a pair of handcuffs.  Let him take a shooting trip to the great Northwest until the real criminal is caught.”

“Well, Fenelon,” replied Mrs. Cooke, unable to repress a smile, “one might as well try to argue with a turn-stile or a weather-vane.  I wash my hands of it.”