“No,” I answered; “it's a long tale, and no time to tell it now. But he is really, as he claims to be, the author of all those detestable books we have been hearing so much of.”
“The deuce he is!” exclaimed Farrar, dropping the stopper he was tying. “Did he write The Sybarites?”
“Yes, sir; he wrote The Sybarites, and all the rest of that trash.”
“He's the fellow that maintains a man ought to marry a girl after he has become engaged to her.”
“Exactly,” I said, smiling at his way of putting it.
“Preaches constancy to all men, but doesn't object to stealing.”
I laughed.
“You're badly mixed,” I explained. “I told you he never stole anything. He was only ass enough to take the man's name who is the living image of him. And the other man took the bonds.”
“Oh, come now,” said he, “tell me something improbable while you are about it.”
“It's true,” I replied, repressing my mirth; “true as the tale of Timothy. I knew him when he was a mere boy. But I don't give you that as a proof, for he might have become all things to all men since. Ask Miss Trevor; or Miss Thorn; she knows the other man, the bicycle man, and has seen them both together.”