t 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."

"He has borrowed another man's name!" she exclaimed; "why, that's
stealing!"

"No, merely kleptomania," I replied; "he wouldn't be the other man if he
could. But it has struck me that the real Mr. Allen might turn up here,
or some friend of his, and stir things a bit. My advice to you is to
keep quiet, and we may have a comedy worth see