I felt a shock of disgust as I passed out.  Masquerading, it must be admitted, is not pleasant to the taste; and the whole farce, as it flashed through my mind,—­his advertised trip, his turning up here under an assumed name, had an ill savor.  Perhaps some of the things they said of him might be true, after all.

“Who the devil is he?” said Farrar, dropping for once his indifference; “he looked as if he knew you.”

I evaded.

“He may have taken me for some one else,” I answered with all the coolness I could muster.  “I have never met any one of his name.  His voice and handwriting, however, are very much like those of a man I used to know.”

Farrar was very poor company that evening, and left me early.  I went to my rooms and had taken down a volume of Carlyle, who can generally command my attention, when there came a knock at the door.

“Come in,” I replied, with an instinctive sense of prophecy.

This was fulfilled at once by the appearance of the Celebrity.  He was attired—­for the details of his dress forced themselves upon me vividly —­in a rough-spun suit of knickerbockers, a colored-shirt having a large and prominent gold stud, red and brown stockings of a diamond pattern, and heavy walking-boots.  And he entered with an air of assurance that was maddening.

“My dear Crocker,” he exclaimed, “you have no idea how delighted I am to see you here!”

I rose, first placing a book-mark in Carlyle, and assured him that I was surprised to see him here.

“Surprised to see me!” he returned, far from being damped by my manner.  “In fact, I am a little surprised to see myself here.”

He sank back on the window-seat and clasped his hands behind his head.

“But first let me thank you for respecting my incognito,” he said.

I tried hard to keep my temper, marvelling at the ready way he had chosen to turn my action.

“And now,” he continued, “I suppose you want to know why I came out here.”  He easily supplied the lack of cordial solicitation on my part.

“Yes, I should like to know,” I said.

Thus having aroused my curiosity, he took his time about appeasing it, after the custom of his kind.  He produced a gold cigarette case, offered me a cigarette, which I refused, took one himself and blew the smoke in rings toward the ceiling.  Then, raising himself on his elbow, he drew his features together in such a way as to lead me to believe he was about to impart some valuable information.

“Crocker,” said he, “it’s the very deuce to be famous, isn’t it?”

“I suppose it is,” I replied curtly, wondering what he was driving at; “I have never tried it.”

“An ordinary man, such as you, can’t conceive of the torture a fellow in my position is obliged to go through the year round, but especially in the summer, when one wishes to go off on a rest.  You know what I mean, of course.”