The next day I went over to the county-seat, and got back to Asquith after dark.  I dined alone, and afterwards I was strolling up and down one end of the long veranda when I caught sight of a lonely figure in a corner, with chair tilted back and feet on the rail.  A gleam of a cigar lighted up the face, and I saw that it was Farrar.  I sat down beside him, and we talked commonplaces for a while, Farrar’s being almost monosyllabic, while now and again feminine voices and feminine laughter reached our ears from the far end of the porch.  They seemed to go through Farrar like a knife, and he smoked furiously, his lips tightly compressed the while.  I had a dozen conjectures, none of which I dared voice.  So I waited in patience.

“Crocker,” said he, at length, “there’s a man here from Boston, Charles Wrexell Allen; came this morning.  You know Boston.  Have you ever heard of him?”

“Allen,” I repeated, reflecting; “no Charles Wrexell.”

“It is Charles Wrexell, I think,” said Farrar, as though the matter were trivial.  “However, we can go into the register and make sure.”

“What about him?” I asked, not feeling inclined to stir.

The Celebrity

“Oh, nothing.  An arrival is rather an occurrence, though.  You can hear him down there now,” he added, tossing his head towards the other end of the porch, “with the women around him.”

In fact, I did catch the deeper sound of a man’s voice among the lighter tones, and the voice had a ring to it which was not wholly unfamiliar, although I could not place it.

I threw Farrar a bait.

“He must make friends easily,” I said.

“With the women?—­yes,” he replied, so scathingly that I was forced to laugh in spite of myself.

“Let us go in and look at the register,” I suggested.  “You may have his name wrong.”

We went in accordingly.  Sure enough, in bold, heavy characters, was the name Charles Wrexell Allen written out in full.  That handwriting was one in a thousand.  I made sure I had seen it before, and yet I did not know it; and the more I puzzled over it the more confused I became.  I turned to Farrar.

“I have had a poor cigar passed off on me and deceive me for a while.  That is precisely the case here.  I think I should recognize your man if I were to see him.”

“Well,” said Farrar, “here’s your chance.”

The company outside were moving in.  Two or three of the older ladies came first, carrying their wraps; then a troop of girls, among whom was Miss Trevor; and lastly, a man.  Farrar and I had walked to the door while the women turned into the drawing-room, so that we were brought face to face with him, suddenly.  At sight of me he halted abruptly, as though he had struck the edge of a door, changed color, and held out his hand, tentatively.  Then he withdrew it again, for I made no sign of recognition.

It was the Celebrity!