“I did not mention him, Miss Vincent,” he answered, “nor do I think it worth while to name him.  He might not care to have the whole story told of how he was handled so as to make him communicative.  Besides, if I did, it would bring him a new batch of sympathetic letters, regretting that he was bothered by those horrid correspondents, full of indignation at the bores who presumed to intrude upon him with their pages of trash, all the writers of which would expect answers to their letters of condolence.”

The Secretary asked the Interviewer if he knew the young gentleman who called himself Maurice Kirkwood.

“What,” he answered, “the man that paddles a birch canoe, and rides all the wild horses of the neighborhood?  No, I don’t know him, but I have met him once or twice, out walking.  A mighty shy fellow, they tell me.  Do you know anything particular about him?”

“Not much.  None of us do, but we should like to.  The story is that he has a queer antipathy to something or to somebody, nobody knows what or whom.”

“To newspaper correspondents, perhaps,” said the interviewer.  “What made you ask me about him?  You did n’t think he was my ‘Literary Celebrity,’ did you?”

“I did not know.  I thought he might be.  Why don’t you interview this mysterious personage?  He would make a good sensation for your paper, I should think.”

“Why, what is there to be interviewed in him?  Is there any story of crime, or anything else to spice a column or so, or even a few paragraphs, with?  If there is, I am willing to handle him professionally.”

“I told you he has what they call an antipathy.  I don’t know how much wiser you are for that piece of information.”

“An antipathy!  Why, so have I an antipathy.  I hate a spider, and as for a naked caterpillar,—­I believe I should go into a fit if I had to touch one.  I know I turn pale at the sight of some of those great green caterpillars that come down from the elm-trees in August and early autumn.”

“Afraid of them?” asked the young lady.

“Afraid?  What should I be afraid of?  They can’t bite or sting.  I can’t give any reason.  All I know is that when I come across one of these creatures in my path I jump to one side, and cry out,—­sometimes using very improper words.  The fact is, they make me crazy for the moment.”

“I understand what you mean,” said Miss Vincent.  “I used to have the same feeling about spiders, but I was ashamed of it, and kept a little menagerie of spiders until I had got over the feeling; that is, pretty much got over it, for I don’t love the creatures very dearly, though I don’t scream when I see one.”

“What did you tell me, Miss Vincent, was this fellow’s particular antipathy?”

That is just the question.  I told you that we don’t know and we can’t guess what it is.  The people here are tired out with trying to discover some good reason for the young man’s keeping out of the way of everybody, as he does.  They say he is odd or crazy, and they don’t seem to be able to tell which.  It would make the old ladies of the village sleep a great deal sounder,—­yes, and some of the young ladies, too,—­if they could find out what this Mr. Kirkwood has got into his head, that he never comes near any of the people here.”