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.”

“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 she did credit to the Celebrity’s exceptional taste.