“What is it you know about this queer but gifted genius who is here so mysteriously?” she asked.
“Nothing whatever,” I confessed. “I knew him before he thought of becoming a genius.”
“Retrogression is always painful,” she said; “but tell me something about him then.”
I told her all I knew, being that narrated in these pages. “Now,” said I, “if you will pardon a curiosity on my part, from what you said the other evening I inferred that he closely resembles the man whose name it pleased him to assume. And that man, I learn from the newspapers, is Mr. Charles Wrexell Allen of the 'Miles Standish Bicycle Company.'”
Miss Thorn made a comic gesture of despair.
“Why he chose Mr. Allen's name,” she said, “is absolutely beyond my guessing. Unless there is some purpose behind the choice, which I do not for an instant believe, it was a foolish thing to do, and one very apt to lead to difficulties. I can understand the rest. He has a reputation for eccentricity which he feels he must keep up, and this notion of assuming a name evidently appealed to him as an inspiration.”
“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.