"You have made a
most proper and equitable decision in giving your consent to Allen's
escape. Doesn't your conscience smart?"
"Not unbearably. I'll tell you what, Farrar," said I, "the truth is,
that this fellow never embezzled so much as a ten-cent piece. He isn't
guilty: he isn't the man."
"Isn't the man?" repeated Farrar.
"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.
Pages:
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161