“But why did he come out here?” I asked.  “Can you tell me that?”

Miss Thorn flushed slightly, and ignored the question.

“I met the ‘Celebrity,’ as you call him,” she said, “for the first time last winter, and I saw him frequently during the season.  Of course I had heard not a little about him and his peculiarities.  His name seems to have gone the length and breadth of the land.  And, like most girls, I had read his books and confess I enjoyed them.  It is not too much to say,” she added archly, “that I made a sort of archangel out of the author.”

“I can understand that,” said I.

“But that did not last,” she continued hastily.  “I see I have got beside my story.  I saw a great deal of him in New York.  He came to call, and I believe I danced with him once or twice.  And then my aunt, Mrs. Rivers, bought a place near Epsom, in Massachusetts, and had a house party there in May.  And the Celebrity was invited.”

I smiled.

“Oh, I assure you it was a mere chance,” said Miss Thorn.  “I mention this that I may tell you the astonishing part of it all.  Epsom is one of those smoky manufacturing towns one sees in New England, and the ’Miles Standish’ bicycle is made there.  The day after we all arrived at my aunt’s a man came up the drive on a wheel whom I greeted in a friendly way and got a decidedly uncertain bow in return.

“I thought it rather a strange shift from a marked cordiality, and spoke of the circumstance to my aunt, who was highly amused.  ‘Why, my dear,’ said she, ’that was Mr. Allen, of the bicycle company.  I was nearly deceived myself.’”

“And is the resemblance so close as that?” I exclaimed.

“So close!  Believe me, they are as like as two ices from a mould.  Of course, when they are together one can distinguish the Celebrity from the bicycle man.  The Celebrity’s chin is a little more square, and his nose straighter, and there are other little differences.  I believe Mr. Allen has a slight scar on his forehead.  But the likeness was remarkable, nevertheless, and it grew to be a standing joke with us.  They actually dressed ludicrously alike.  The Celebrity became so sensitive about it that he went back to New York before the party broke up.  We grew to be quite fond of the bicycle man.”

She paused and shifted her chair, which had rocked close to mine.

“And can you account for his coming to Asquith?” I asked innocently.

She was plainly embarrassed.

“I suppose I might account for it, Mr. Crocker,” she replied.  Then she added, with something of an impulse, “After all, it is foolish of me not to tell you.  You probably know the Celebrity well enough to have learned that he takes idiotic fancies to young women.”

“Not always idiotic,” I protested.

“You mean that the young women are not always idiotic, I suppose.  No, not always, but nearly always.  I imagine he got the idea of coming to Asquith,” she went on with a change of manner, “because I chanced to mention that I was coming out here on a visit.”