thing 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."

"Well," said Marian, "he's been doing a little more for our friend than
we did."

Nor was this the last we heard of that meteoric trip through England,
which the alleged author of The Sybarites had indulged in. He did not
go up to London; not he. It was given out that he was travelling for his
health, that he did not wish to be lionized; and there were friends of
the author in the metropolis who had never heard of his secretary, and
who were at a loss to understand his conduct. They felt slighted. One of
these told me that the Celebrity had been to a Lincolnshire estate where
he had created a decided sensation by his riding to hounds, something
the Celebrity had never been known to do. And before we crossed the
Channel, Marian saw another autograph copy of the famous novel.

One day, some months afterwards, we were sitting in our little salon in
a Paris hotel when a card was sent up, which Marian took.

"John," she cried, "it's the Celebrity."

It was the Celebrity, in the flesh, faultlessly groomed and clothed,
with frock coat, gloves, and stick. He looked the picture of ruddy,
manly health and strength, and we saw at once that he bore no ill-will
for the past. He congratulated us warmly, and it was my turn to offer
him a cigarette. He was nothing loath to reminisce on the subject of his
experiences in the wilds of the northern lakes, or even to laugh over
them. He asked affectionately after his friend Cooke. Time had softened
his feelings, and we learned that he had another girl, who was in Paris
just then, and invited us on the spot to dine with her at "Joseph's."
Let me say, in passing, that as usual s