"I have the date," answered our host, "for he left me an autograph copy
of The Sybarites when he went away." And after dinner he showed us the
book, with evident pride. Inscribed on the fly-leaf was the name of the
author, October 10th. But a glance sufficed to convince both of us that
the Celebrity had never written it.
"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.
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