"Did you hear what I said?" asked Celia, in a low voice, one a trifle
more gentle, though it was still firm. "I said that I don't believe
you."

"Yes; I heard," he responded, with a listless smile of irony; "but I am
afraid twelve good men in a box--the jury, you know--would not be so
incredulous. May I ask why you refuse to accept my plea of guilty? Not
that it matters!"

Celia's brows drew together, and she looked as if she were somewhat
embarrassed and puzzled by the question; at last, after a pause, she
replied, woman-like, "You don't look like one."

"Quite so," he said, with deeper irony. "That is essentially a feminine
reason. Of course, your idea of a forger is the theatrical one; the
gentleman with a Mephistophelian face, a sardonic sneer, evening dress,
with a big cloak, and a cigarette in the corner of his mouth; the
villain who looks every inch the part and says 'Curse you!' whenever it
is possible to do so. My dear young lady, your ignorance of the world
spoils your compliment. The worst man, the biggest criminal I ever saw
in the dock, looked as innocent as a baby."

"All the same, I don't believe you," Celia declared, doggedly.

"I am sorry to say the court is not with you," he said, with a smile
that did not hide his bitterness. "The cheque was cashed by the
prisoner--myself, my lord.--You see, I accept you as judge.--When he was
asked to give an account of it, he refused to do so; I am speaking in
the past tense, but I am merely forecasting the course of the trial. A
man who cashes a forged cheque and declines to say where he got it, how
it came into his possession, is quickly disposed of by a British jury,
than which there is no body of men more acute and intelligent."