“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!”