It is needless to say that the Celebrity did not come back to the inn, and as far as I could see the desertion was designed, cold-blooded, and complete.  Miss Trevor remained out of sight during the day of his departure, and at dinner we noticed traces of a storm about her,—­a storm which had come and gone.  There was an involuntary hush as she entered the dining-room, for Asquith had been buzzing that afternoon over the episode.  And I admired the manner in which she bore her inspection.  Already rumors of the cause of Mr. Allen’s departure were in active circulation, and I was astonished to learn that he had been seen that day seated upon Indian rock with Miss Thorn herself.  This piece of news gave me a feeling of insecurity about people, and about women in particular, that I had never before experienced.  After holding the Celebrity up to such unmeasured ridicule as she had done, ridicule not without a seasoning of contempt, it was difficult to believe Miss Thorn so inconsistent as to go alone with him to Indian rock; and she was not ignorant of Miss Trevor’s experience.  But the fact was attested by trustworthy persons.

I have often wondered what prompted me to ask Miss Trevor again to go canoeing.  To do myself justice, it was no wish of mine to meddle with or pry into her affairs.  Neither did I flatter myself that my poor company would be any consolation for that she had lost.  I shall not try to analyze my motive.  Suffice it to record that she accepted this second invitation, and I did my best to amuse her by relating a few of my experiences at the bar, and I told that memorable story of Farrar throwing O’Meara into the street.  We were getting along famously, when we descried another canoe passing us at some distance, and we both recognized the Celebrity at the paddle by the flannel jacket of his college boat club.  And Miss Thorn sat in the bow!

“Do you know anything about that man, Miss Trevor?” I asked abruptly.

She grew scarlet, but replied: 

“I know that he is a fraud.”

“Anything else?”

“I can’t say that I do; that is, nothing but what he has told me.”

“If you will forgive my curiosity,” I said, “what has he told you?”

“He says he is the author of The Sybarites,” she answered, her lip curling, “but of course I do not believe that, now.”

“But that happens to be true,” I said, smiling.

She clapped her hands.

“I promised him I wouldn’t tell,” she cried, “but the minute I get back to the inn I shall publish it.”

“No, don’t do that just yet,” said I.

“Why not?  Of course I shall.”

I had no definite reason, only a vague hope that we should get some better sort of enjoyment out of the disclosure before the summer was over.

“You see,” I said, “he is always getting into scrapes; he is that kind of a man.  And it is my humble opinion that he has put his head into a noose this time, for sure.  Mr. Allen, of the ’Miles Standish Bicycle Company,’ whose name he has borrowed for the occasion, is enough like him in appearance to be his twin brother.”