ASURER TAKES A TRIP.

CHARLES WREXELL ALLEN, OF THE MILES STANDISH
BICYCLE COMPANY, GETS OFF WITH 100,000 DOLLARS.

DETECTIVES BAFFLED.

THE ABSCONDER A BACK BAY SOCIAL LEADER.

Half way down the column was a picture of Mr. Allen, a cut made from a
photograph, and, allowing for the crudities of newspaper reproduction,
it was a striking likeness of the Celebrity. Underneath was a short
description. Mr. Allen was five feet eleven (the Celebrity's height),
had a straight nose, square chin, dark hair and eyes, broad shoulders,
was dressed elaborately; in brief, tallied in every particular with the
Celebrity with the exception of the slight scar which Allen was thought
to have on his forehead.

The situation and all its ludicrous possibilities came over me with a
jump. It was too good to be true. Had Mr. Charles Wrexell Allen arrived
at Asquith and created a sensation with the man who stole his name I
should have been amply satisfied. But that Mr. Allen had been obliging
enough to abscond with a large sum of money was beyond dreaming!

I glanced at the rest of it: a history of the well-established company
followed, with all that Mr. Allen had done for it. The picture, by the
way, had been obtained from the St. Paul agent of the bicycle. After
doing due credit to the treasurer's abilities as a hustler there
followed a summary of his character, hitherto without reproach; but his
tastes were expensive ones. Mr. Allen's tendency to extravagance had
been noticed by the members of the Miles Standish Company, and some of
the older directors had on occasions remonstrated with him. But he had
been too valuable a man to let go, and it seems as treasurer he was
trusted implicitly. He was said to have more clothes than any man in
Boston.

I am used to thinking quickly, and by the time I had read this I had an
idea.

"What in hell do you make of that, Crocker?" cried my client, eyeing me
closely and repeating the question again and again, as was his wont when
agitated.

"It is certainly plain enough," I replied, "but I should like to talk to
you before you decide to hand him over to the authorities."

I thought I knew Mr. Cooke, and I was not mistaken.

"Authorities!" he roared. "Damn the authorities! There's my yacht, and
there's the Canadian border." And he pointed to the north.

The others were pressing around us by this time, and had caught the
significant words which Mr. Cooke had utt