“John,” said Marian to me, a suspicion of the truth crossing her mind, “John, can it be the bicycle man?” “Yes, it can be,” I said; “it is.” “Well,” said Marian, “he's been doing a little more for our friend than we did.” Nor was this the last we heard of that meteoric trip through England, which the alleged author of The Sybarites had indulged in. He did not go up to London; not he. It was given out that he was travelling for his health, that he did not wish to be lionized; and there were friends of the author in the metropolis who had never heard of his secretary, and who were at a loss to understand his conduct. They felt slighted. One of these told me that the Celebrity had been to a Lincolnshire estate where he had created a decided sensation by his riding to hounds, something the Celebrity had never been known to do. And before we crossed the Channel, Marian saw another autograph copy of the famous novel. One day, some months afterwards, we were sitting in our little salon in a Paris hotel when a card was sent up, which Marian took. “John,” she cried, “it's the Celebrity.” It was the Celebrity, in the flesh, faultlessly groomed and clothed, with frock coat, gloves, and stick. He looked the picture of ruddy, manly health and strength, and we saw at once that he bore no ill-will for the past. He congratulated us warmly, and it was my turn to offer him a cigarette. He was nothing loath to reminisce on the subject of his experiences in the wilds of the northern lakes, or even to laugh over them. He asked affectionately after his friend Cooke. Time had softened his feelings, and we learned that he had another girl, who was in Paris just then, and invited us on the spot to dine with her at “Joseph's.” Let me say, in passing, that as usual she did credit to the Celebrity's exceptional taste. “Now,” said he, “I have something to tell you two.” He asked for another cigarette, and I laid the box beside him. “I suppose you reached Saville all right,” I said, anticipating. “Seven at night,” said he, “and so hungry that I ate what they call marble cake for supper, and a great many other things out of little side dishes, and nearly died of indigestion afterward. Then I took a train up to the main line. An express came along. 'Why not go West?' I asked myself, and I jumped aboard. It was another whim--you know I am subject to them. When I got to Victoria I wired for money and sailed to Japan; and then I went on to India and through the Suez, taking things easy. I fell in with some people I knew who were going where the spirit moved them, and I went along. “Algiers, for one place, and whom do you think I saw there, in the lobby of a hotel?” “Charles Wrexell Allen,” cried Marian and I together. The Celebrity looked surprised. “How did you know?” he demanded. “Go on with your story,” said Marian; “what did he do?”