tor Trevor, who remained
over, in a new long black coat to kiss the bride. Mr. Cooke chartered
two cars to carry guests from the East, besides those who came as
ordinary citizens. Miss Trevor was of the party, and Farrar, of course,
was best man. Would that I had the flow of words possessed by the
reporter of the Chicago Sunday newspaper!

But there is one thing I must mention before Mrs. Crocker and I leave for
New York, in a shower of rice, on Mr. Cooke's own private car, and that
is my client's gift. In addition to the check he gave Marian, he
presented us with a huge, 'repousse' silver urn he had had made to order,
and he expressed a desire that the design upon it should remind us of him
forever and ever. I think it will. Mercury is duly set forth in a
gorgeous equipage, driving four horses around the world at a furious
pace; and the artist, by special instructions, had docked their tails.

From New York, Mrs. Crocker and I went abroad. And it so chanced, in
December, that we were staying a few days at a country-place in Sussex,
and the subject of The Sybarites was broached at a dinner-party. The
book was then having its sale in England.

"Crocker," said our host, "do you happen to have met the author of that
book? He's an American."

I looked across the table at my wife, and we both laughed.

"I happen to know him intimately," I replied.

"Do you, now?" said the Englishman; "what a very entertaining chap he is,
is he not? I had him down in October, and, by Jove, we were laughing the
blessed time. He was telling us how he wrote his novels, and he said,
'pon my soul he did, that he had a secretary or something of that sort to
whom he told the plot, and the secretary elaborated, you know, and wrote
the draft. And he said, 'pon my honor, that sometimes the clark wrote
the plot and all,--the whole blessed thing,--and that he never saw the
book except to sign his name to it."

"You say he was here in October?" asked Marian, when the laugh had
subsided.

"I have the date," answered our host, "for he left me an autograph copy
of The Sybarites when he went away." And after dinner he showed us the
book, with evident pride. Inscribed on the fly-leaf was the name of the
author, October 10th. But a glance sufficed to convince both of us that
the Celebrity had never written it.

"John," said Marian to me, a suspicion of the truth crossing her mind,
"John, can it be the bicycle man?"

"Yes, it can be," I said; "it is.