"Not a cent," said Mr. Stacy firmly.
"What! I don't understand." Harrowby gazed at him blankly. "It's worth—"
"Not a cent," Stacy repeated. "That's final."
Harrowby turned appealingly to Martin Wall.
"You—" he pleaded.
"I'm not investing," Wall replied, with a queer smile.
Lord Harrowby restored the necklace to his pocket and, crestfallen, gloomy, went back to the room above.
"Wouldn't loan me anything on it," he whispered to Minot. "I don't understand, really."
Thereafter Harrowby suffered the pain of watching others play. And while he watched, in the little office down-stairs, a scene of vital bearing on his future was enacted.
A short stocky man with a bullet-shaped head had pushed open the door on Messrs. Stacy and Wall. He stood, looking about him with a cynical smile.
"Hello, Tom," he said.
"Old Bill Huntley!" cried Stacy. "By gad, you gave me a turn. I forgot for a minute that you can't raid me down here."
"Them happy days is past," returned Mr. Huntley dryly. "I'm working for Uncle Sam, now, Tom. Got new fish to fry. Used to have some gay times in New York, didn't we? Oh, hello, Craig!"
"My name is Martin Wall," said that gentleman stiffly.
"Ain't he got the lovely manners," said Huntley, pretending admiration. "Always did have, too. And the swell friends. Still going round in the caviar crowd, I hear. What if I was to tell your friends here who you are?"
"You won't do that," said Wall, outwardly unshaken, but his breath came faster.
"Oh—you're sure of that, are you?"
"Yes. Who I am isn't one of your worries in your new line of business. And you're going to keep still because I can do you a favor—and I will."
"Thanks, Craig. Excuse me—Martin Wall. Sort of a strain keeping track of your names, you know."
"Forget that. I say I can do you a favor—if you'll promise not to mix in my affairs."
"Well—what is it?"
"You're down here looking for a diamond necklace known as Chain Lightning's Collar."
"Great little guesser, you are. Well—what about it?"
"Promise?"
"You deliver the goods, and I'll see."
"All right. You'll find that necklace in Lord Harrowby's pocket right now. And you'll find Lord Harrowby in a room up-stairs."
Mr. Huntley stood for a moment staring at the man he called Craig. Then with a grunt he turned away.
Two minutes later, in the bright room above, that same rather vulgar grunt sounded in Lord Harrowby's patrician ear. He turned, and his face paled. Hopelessly he looked toward Minot. Then without a word he followed Huntley from the room.
Only two of that excited crowd about the wheel noticed. And these two fled simultaneously to the balcony. There, half hidden behind an ancient musty rug, Cynthia Meyrick and Minot watched together.
Harrowby and Huntley descended the soft stairs. At the bottom, Martin Wall and Stacy were waiting. The sound of voices pitched low could be heard on the balcony, but though they strained to hear, the pair above could not. However, they could see the plebeian hand of Mr. Huntley held out to Lord Harrowby. They could see Harrowby reach into his pocket, and bring forth a white envelope. Next they beheld Chain Lightning's Collar gleam in the dusk as Huntley held it up. A few low words, and Harrowby went out with the detective.
Martin Wall ascended the stair. On the dim balcony he was confronted by a white-faced girl whose wonderful copper hair had once held Chain Lightning's Collar.
"What does it mean?" she asked, her voice low and tense.
"Mean?" Martin Wall laughed. "It means that Lord Harrowby must go north and face a United States Commissioner in Jersey City. It seems that when he brought that necklace over he quite forgot to tell the customs officials about it."
"Go north! When?"
"To-night. On the midnight train. North to Jersey City."
Mr. Wall went into the bright room where the excitement buzzed on, oblivious. Cynthia Meyrick turned to Minot.
"But he can't possibly get back—" she cried.
"No. He can't get back. I'm sorry."
"And my wedding dress—came last night."
She stood clutching a moth-eaten tapestry in her slim white hand. In the gloom of that dull old balcony her eyes shone strangely.
"Some things aren't to be," she whispered. "And"—very faintly—"others are."
A thrill shot through Minot, sharp as a pain, but glorious. What did she mean by that? What indeed but the one thing that must not happen—the thing he wanted most of all things in the world to happen—the thing he had come to San Marco to prevent. He came closer to her—and closer—the blood was pounding in his brain. Dazed, exulting, he held out his arms.
"Cynthia!" he cried.
And then suddenly behind her, on the stairs, he caught sight of a great bald head ascending through the dusk. It was an ordinary bald head, the property of Mr. Stacy in fact, but to Minot a certain Jephson seemed to be moving beneath it He remembered. His arms fell to his sides. He turned away.
"We must see what can be done," he said mechanically.
"Yes," Cynthia Meyrick agreed in an odd tone, "we must see what can be done."
And a tear, unnoticed, fell on Mr. Stacy's aged oriental tapestry.
Miss Meyrick turned back toward the room of chance to find her father. Minot, meanwhile, ran down the steps, obtained his hat and coat, and hurried across the street to the hotel. He went at once to Harrowby's rooms.
There he encountered a scene of wild disorder. The round-faced valet was packing trunks against time, and his time-keeper, Mr. Bill Huntley, sat in a corner, grim and silent, watch in hand. Lord Harrowby paced the floor madly. When he saw Minot he held out his long, lean, helpless hands.
"You've heard, old boy?" he said.
"Yes, I've heard," said Minot sharply. "A fine fix, Harrowby. Why the deuce didn't you pay the duty on that necklace?"
"Dear boy! Was saving every cent I had for—you know what. Besides, I heard of such a clever scheme for slipping it in—"
"Never mind that! Mr. Huntley, this gentleman was to have been married on Tuesday. Can't you hold off until then?"
"Nothing doing," said Mr. Huntley firmly. "I got to get back to New York. He'll have to postpone his wedding. Ought to have thought of these things before he pulled off his little stunt."
"It's no use, Minot," said Harrowby hopelessly. "I've gone all over it with this chap. He won't listen to reason. What the deuce am I to do?"
A knock sounded on the door and Spencer Meyrick, red-faced, flirting with apoplexy, strode into the room.
"Lord Harrowby," he announced, "I desire to see you alone."
"Er—step into the bedroom," Harrowby suggested.
Mr. Huntley rose promptly to his feet.
"Nix," he said. "There's a door out of that room leading into the hall. If you go in there, I go, too."
Mr. Meyrick glared. Harrowby stood embarrassed.
"Very well," said Meyrick through his teeth. "We'll stay here. It doesn't matter to me. I simply want to say, Lord Harrowby, that when you get to Jersey City you needn't trouble to come back, as far as my family is concerned."
A look of pain came into Harrowby's thin face.
"Not come back," he said. "My dear sir—"
"That's what I said. I'm a plain man, Harrowby. A plain American. It doesn't seem to me that marrying into the British nobility is worth all the trouble it's costing us—"
"But really—"
"It may be, but it doesn't look that way to me. I prefer a simple wedding to a series of vaudeville acts. If you think I'm going to stand for the publicity of this latest affair, you're mistaken. I've talked matters over with Cynthia—the marriage is off—for good!"
"But my dear sir, Cynthia and I are very fond of each other—"
"I don't give a damn if you are!" Meyrick fumed. "This is the last straw. I'm through with you. Good night, and good-by."
He stamped out as he had come, and Lord Harrowby fell limply into a chair.
"All over, and all done," he moaned.
"And Jephson loses," said Minot with mixed emotions.
"Yes—I'm sorry." Harrowby shook his head tragically. "Sorrier than you are, old chap. I love Cynthia Meyrick—really I do. This is a bit of a blow."
"Come, come!" cried Mr. Huntley. "I'm not going to miss that train while you play-act. We've only got half an hour, now."
Harrowby rose unhappily and went into the inner room, Huntley at his heels. Minot sat, his unseeing eyes gazing down at the old copy of theLondon Timeswhich Harrowby had been reading that morning at breakfast.
Gradually, despite his preoccupation, a name in a head-line forced itself to his attention. Courtney Giles. Where had he heard that name before? He picked up theTimesfrom the table on which it was lying. He read:
"The Ardent Lover, the new romantic comedy in which Courtney Giles has appeared briefly at the West End Road Theater, will be removed from the boards to-night. The public has not been appreciative. If truth must be told—and bitter truth it is—the once beloved matinée idol has become too fat to hold his old admirers, and they have drifted steadily to other, slimmer gods. Mr. Giles' early retirement from the stage is rumored."
Minot threw down the paper. Poor old Jephson! First the rain on the dowager duchess, then an actor's expanding waist—and to-morrow the news that Harrowby's wedding was not to be. Why, it would ruin the man!
Minot stepped to the door of the inner room.
"I'm going out to think," he announced. "I'll see you in the lobby before you leave."
Two minutes later, in the summer-house where he had bid good-by to the sparkling Gaiety lady, he sat puffing furiously at a cigar. Back into the past as it concerned Chain Lightning's Collar he went. That night when Cynthia Meyrick had worn it in her hair, and Harrowby, hearing of the search for it—had snatched it in the dark. His own guardianship of the valuable trinket—Martin Wall's invasion of his rooms—the "dropping" of the jewels on shipboard, and the return of them by Mr. Wall next morning. And last, but not least, Mr. Stacy's firm refusal to loan money on the necklace that very night.
All these things Minot pondered.
Meanwhile Harrowby, having finished his packing, descended to the lobby of the De la Pax. In a certain pink parlor he found Cynthia Meyrick, and stood gazing helplessly into her eyes.
"Cynthia—your father said—is it true?"
"It's true, Allan."
"You too wish the wedding—indefinitely postponed?"
"Father thinks it best—"
"But you?" He came closer. "You, Cynthia?"
"I—I don't know. There has been so much trouble, Allan—"
"I know. And I'm fearfully sorry about this latest. But, Cynthia—you mustn't send me away—I love you. Do you doubt that?"
"No, Allan."
"You're the most wonderful girl who has ever come into my life—I want you in it always—beside me—"
"At any rate, Allan, a wedding next Tuesday is impossible now."
"Yes, I'm afraid it is. And after that—"
"After that—I don't know, Allan."
Aunt Mary came into the room, distress written plainly in her plump face. No misstep of the peerage was beyond Aunt Mary's forgiveness. She took Harrowby's hand.
"I'm so sorry, your lordship," she said. "Most unfortunate. But I'm sure it will all be cleared away in time—"
Mr. Huntley made it a point to interrupt. He stood at the door, watch in hand.
"Come on," he said. "We've got to start."
Harrowby followed the ladies from the room. In the lobby Spencer Meyrick joined them. His lordship shook hands with Aunt Mary, with Mr. Meyrick—then he turned to the girl.
"Good-by, Cynthia," he said unhappily. He took her slim white hand in his. Then he turned quickly and started with Huntley for the door.
It was at this point that Mr. Minot, his cigar and his cogitations finished, entered upon the scene.
"Just a minute," he said to Mr. Huntley.
"Not another minute," remarked Huntley with decision. "Not for the King of England himself. We got just fifteen of 'em left to catch that train, and if I know San Marco hackmen—"
"You've got time to answer one or two questions." Impressed by Minot's tone, the Meyrick family moved nearer. "There's no doubt, is there, Mr. Huntley, that the necklace you have in your pocket is the one Lord Harrowby brought from England?"
"Of course not. Now, get out of the way—"
"Are you a good judge of jewels, Mr. Huntley?"
"Well, I've got a little reputation in that line. But say—"
"Then I suggest," said Minot impressively, "that you examine Chain Lightning's Collar closely."
"Thanks for the suggestion," sneered Mr. Huntley. "I'll follow it—when I get time. Just now I've got to—"
"You'd better follow it now—before you catch a train. Otherwise you may be so unfortunate as to make a fool of yourself."
Mr. Huntley stood, hesitating. There was something in Minot's tone that rang true. The detective again looked at his watch. Then, with one of his celebrated grunts, he pulled out the necklace, and stood staring at it with a new expression.
He grunted again, and stepped to a near-by writing-desk, above which hung a powerful electric light. The others followed. Mr. Huntley laid the necklace on the desk, and took out a small microscope which was attached to one end of his watch-chain. With rapt gaze he stared at the largest of the diamonds. He went the length of the string, examining each stone in turn. The expression on Mr. Huntley's face would have made him a star in the "movies."
"Hell!" he cried, and threw Chain Lightning's Collar down on the desk.
"What's the matter?" Mr. Minot smiled.
"Glass," snarled Huntley. "Fine old bottle glass. What do you know about that?"
"But really—it can't be—" put in Harrowby.
"Well it is," Mr. Huntley glared at him. "The inspector might have known you moth-eaten noblemen ain't got any of the real stuff left."
"I won't believe it—" Harrowby began, but caught Minot's eye.
"It's true, just the same," Minot said. "By the way, Mr. Huntley, how much is that little ornament worth?"
"About nine dollars and twenty-five cents." Mr. Huntley still glared angrily.
"Well—you can't take Lord Harrowby back for not declaring that, can you?"
"No," snorted Huntley. "But I can go back myself, and I'm going—on that midnight train. Good-by."
Minot followed him to the door.
"Aren't you going to thank me?" he asked. "You know, I saved you—"
"Thank you! Hell!" said Huntley, and disappeared into the dark.
When Minot returned he found Harrowby standing facing the Meyricks, and holding the necklace in his hand as though it were a bomb on the point of exploding.
"I say, I feel rather low," he was saying, "when I remember that I made you a present of this thing, Cynthia. But on my honor, I didn't know. And I can scarcely believe it now. I know the governor has been financially embarrassed—but I never suspected him of this—the associations were so dear—really—"
"It may not have been your father who duplicated Chain Lightning's Collar with a fake," Minot suggested.
"My word, old boy, who then?"
"You remember," said Minot, addressing the Meyricks, "that the necklace was stolen recently. Well—it was returned to Lord Harrowby under unusual circumstances. At least, this collection of glass was returned. My theory is that the thief had a duplicate made—an old trick."
"The very idea," Harrowby cried. "I say, Minot, you are clever. I should never have thought of that."
"Thanks," said Minot dryly. He sought to avoid Miss Cynthia Meyrick's eyes.
"Er—by the way," said Harrowby, looking at Spencer Meyrick. "There is nothing to prevent the wedding now."
The old man shrugged his shoulders.
"I leave that to my daughter," he said, and turned away.
"Cynthia?" Harrowby pleaded.
Miss Meyrick cast a strange look at Minot, standing forlorn before her. And then she smiled—not very happily.
"There seems to be no reason for changing our plans," she said slowly. "It would be a great disappointment to—so many people. Good night."
Minot followed her to the elevator.
"It's as I told you this morning," he said miserably. "I'm just one of the pawns in the hands of the Master of the Show. I can't explain—"
"What is there to explain?" the girl asked coldly. "I congratulate you on a highly successful evening."
The elevator door banged shut between them.
Turning, Minot encountered Aunt Mary.
"You clever boy," she cried. "We are all so very grateful to you. You have saved us from a very embarrassing situation."
"Please don't mention it," Minot replied, and he meant it.
He sat down beside the dazed Harrowby on one of the lobby sofas.
"I'm all at sea, really, old chap," Harrowby confessed. "But I must say—I admire you tremendously. How the devil did you know the necklace was a fraud?"
"I didn't know—I guessed," said Minot. "And the thing that led me to make that happy guess was Tom Stacy's refusal to loan you money on it to-night. Mr. Stacy is no fool."
"And you think that Martin Wall has the real Chain Lightning's Collar?"
"It looks that way to me. There's only one thing against my theory. He didn't clear out when he had the chance. But he may be staying on to avert suspicion. We haven't any evidence to arrest him on—and if we did there'd be the customs people to deal with. If I were you I'd hire a private detective to watch Wall, and try to get the real necklace back without enlisting the arm of the law."
"Really," said Harrowby, "things are happening so swiftly I'm at a loss to follow them. I am, old boy. First one obstacle and then another. You've been splendid, Minot, splendid. I want to thank you for all you have done. I thought to-night the wedding had gone glimmering. And I'm fond of Miss Meyrick. Tremendously."
"Don't thank me," Minot replied. "I'm not doing it for you—we both know that. I'm protecting Jephson's money. In a few days, wedding-bells. And then me back to New York, shouting never again on the Cupid act. If I'm ever roped into another job like this—"
"It has been a trying position for you," Harrowby said sympathetically. "And you've done nobly. I'm sure your troubles are all out of the way now. With the necklace worry gone—"
He paused. For across the lobby toward them walked Henry Trimmer, and his walk was that of a man who is going somewhere.
"Ah—Mister Harrowby," he boomed, "and Mr. Minot I've been looking for you both. It will interest you to know that I had a wireless message from Lord Harrowby this noon."
"A wireless?" cried Minot.
"Yes." Trimmer laughed. "Not such a fool as you think him, Lord Harrowby isn't. Managed to send me a wireless from Tarragona despite the attentions of your friends. So I went out there this afternoon and brought George back with me."
Silently Minot and Harrowby stared at each other.
"Yes," Mr. Trimmer went on, "George is back again—back under the direction of little me, a publicity man with no grass under the feet. I've come to give you gentlemen your choice. You either see Lord Harrowby to-morrow morning at ten o'clock and recognize his claims, or I'll have you both thrown into jail for kidnaping."
"To-morrow morning at ten," Harrowby repeated gloomily.
"That's what I said," replied Mr. Trimmer blithely. "How about it, little brother?"
"Minot—what would you advise?"
"See him," sighed Minot.
"Very well." Harrowby's tone was resigned. "I presume I'd better."
"Ah—coming to your senses, aren't you?" said Trimmer. "I hope we aren't spoiling the joyous wedding-day. But then, what I say is, if the girl's marrying you just for the title—"
Harrowby leaped to his feet
"You haven't been asked for an opinion," he said.
"No, of course not. Don't get excited. I'll see you both in the morning at ten." And Mr. Trimmer strolled elegantly away.
Harrowby turned hopefully Jo Minot.
"At ten in the morning," he repeated. "Old chap, what are we going to do at ten in the morning?"
"I don't know," smiled Minot. "But if past performances mean anything, we'll win."
"What's the matter with you?"
Seated in the lobby of the De la Pax on Sunday morning, Mr. Trimmer turned a disapproving eye upon the lank Englishman at his side as he made this query. And his question was not without good foundation. For the aspirant to the title of Lord Harrowby was at the moment a jelly quaking with fear.
"Fawncy meeting you after all these years," said poor old George in an uncertain treble.
"Come, come," cried Mr. Trimmer, "put a little more authority into your voice. You can't walk up and claim your rights with your knees dancing the tango. This is the moment we've been looking forward to. Act determined. Walk into that room up-stairs as though you were walking into Rakedale Hall to take charge of it."
"Allan, don't you know me—I'm your brother George," went on the Englishman, intent on rehearsing.
"More like it," said Trimmer. "Put the fire into it. You're not expecting a thrashing, you know. You're expecting the title and recognition that belongs to you. I wish I was the real Lord Harrowby. I guess I'd show 'em a thing or two."
"I wish you was," agreed poor old George sadly. "Somehow, I don't seem to have the spirit I used to have."
"A good point," commented Trimmer. "Years of wrong and suffering have made you timid. I'll call that to their attention. Five minutes of ten, your lordship."
His lordship groaned.
"All right, I'm ready," he said. "What is it I say as I go in? Oh, yes—" He stepped into the elevator—"Fawncy seeing you after all these years."
The negro elevator boy was somewhat startled at this greeting, but regained his composure and started the car. Mr. Trimmer and his "proposition" shot up toward their great opportunity.
In Lord Harrowby's suite that gentleman sat in considerable nervousness, awaiting the undesired encounter. With him sat Miss Meyrick and her father, whom he had thought it necessary to invite to witness the ordeal. Mr. Richard Minot uneasily paced the floor, avoiding as much as possible the glances of Miss Meyrick's brown eyes. Ten o'clock was upon him, and Mr. Minot was no nearer a plan of action than he had been the preceding night.
Every good press agent is not without a live theatrical sense, and Mr. Trimmer was no exception. He left his trembling claimant in the entrance hall and strode into the room.
"Good morning," he said brightly. "Here we are, on time to the minute. Ah—I beg your pardon."
Lord Harrowby performed brief introductions, which Mr. Trimmer effusively acknowledged. Then he turned dramatically toward his lordship.
"Out here in the hallway stands a poor broken creature," he began. "Your own flesh and blood, Allan Harrowby." Obviously Mr. Trimmer had prepared speeches for himself as well as for poor old George. "For twenty odd and impecunious years," he went on, "this man has been denied his just heritage. We are here this morning to perform a duty—"
"My dear fellow," broke in Harrowby wearily, "why should you inflict oratory upon us? Bring in this—er—gentleman."
"That I will," replied Trimmer heartily. "And when you have heard his story, digested his evidence, I am sure—"
"Yes, yes. Bring him in."
Mr. Trimmer stepped to the door. He beckoned. A very reluctant figure shuffled in. George's face was green with fright. His knees rattled together. He made, altogether, a ludicrous picture, and Mr. Trimmer himself noted this with sinking heart.
"Allow me," said Trimmer theatrically. "George, Lord Harrowby."
George cleared his throat, but did not succeed in dislodging his heart, which was there at the moment.
"Fawncy seeing you after all these years," he mumbled weakly, to no one in particular.
"Speak up," said Spencer Meyrick sharply.
"Who is it you're talking to?"
"To him," explained George, nodding toward Lord Harrowby. "To my brother Allan. Don't you know me, Allan? Don't you know—"
He stopped. An expression of surprise and relief swept over his worried face. He turned triumphantly to Trimmer.
"I don't have to prove who I am to him," he announced.
"Why don't you?" demanded Trimmer in alarm.
"Because he can't, I fancy," put in Lord Harrowby.
"No," said George slowly, "because I never saw him before in all my life."
"Ah—you admit it," cried Allan Harrowby with relief.
"Of course I do," replied George. "I never saw you before in my life."
"And you've never been at Rakedale Hall, have you?" Lord Harrowby demanded.
"Here—wait a minute—" shouted Trimmer, in a panic.
"Oh, yes—I've been at Rakedale Hall," said the claimant firmly. "I spent my boyhood there. But you've never been there."
"I—what—"
"You've never been at Rakedale Hall. Why? Because you're not Allan Harrowby! That's why."
A deathly silence fell. Only a little traveling clock on the mantel was articulate.
"Absurd—ridiculous—" cried Lord Harrowby.
"Talk about impostors," cried George, his spirit and his courage sweeping back. "You're one yourself. I wish I'd got a good look at you sooner, I'd have put a stop to all this. Allan Harrowby, eh? I guess not. I guess I'd know my own brother if I saw him. I guess I know the Harrowby features. I give you twenty-four hours to get out of town—you blooming fraud."
"The man's crazy," Allan Harrowby cried. "Raving mad. He's an impostor—this is a trick of his—" He looked helplessly around the circle. In every face he saw doubt, questioning. "Good heavens—you're not going to listen to him? He's come here to prove that he's George Harrowby. Why doesn't he do it?"
"I'll do it," said George sweetly, "when I meet a real Harrowby. In the meantime, I give you twenty-four hours to get out of town. You'd better go."
Victorious, George turned toward the door. Trimmer, lost between admiration and doubt, turned also.
"Take my advice," George proclaimed. "Make him prove who he is. That's the important point now. What does it matter to you who I am? Nothing. But it matters a lot about him. Make him prove that he's Allan Harrowby."
And, with the imperious manner that he should have adopted on entering the room, George Harrowby left it. Mr. Trimmer, eclipsed for once, trotted at his side.
"Say," cried Trimmer in the hall, "is that on the level? Isn't he Allan Harrowby?"
"I should say not," said George grandly. "Doesn't look anything like Allan."
Trimmer chortled in glee.
"Great stuff," he cried. "I guess we tossed a bomb, eh? Now, we'll run him out of town."
"Oh, no," said George. "We've done our work here. Let's go over to London now and see the pater."
"That we will," cried Trimmer. "That we will. By gad, I'm proud of you to-day, Lord Harrowby."
Inside Allan Harrowby's suite three pairs of questioning eyes were turned on that harassed nobleman. He fidgeted in his chair.
"I say," he pleaded. "It's all his bluff, you know."
"Maybe," said old Spencer Meyrick, rising. "But Harrowby—or whatever your name is—there's altogether too much three-ring circus about this wedding to suit me. My patience is exhausted, sir—clean exhausted. Things look queer to me—have right along. I'm more than inclined to believe what that fellow said."
"But my dear sir—that chap is a rank impostor. There wasn't a word of truth in what he said. Cynthia—you understand—"
"Why, yes—I suppose so," the girl replied. "You are Allan Harrowby, aren't you?"
"My dear girl—of course I am."
"Nevertheless," said Spencer Meyrick with decision, "I'm going to call the wedding off again. Some of your actions haven't made much of a hit with me. I'm going to call it off until you come to me and prove that you're Allan Harrowby—a lord in good and regular standing, with all dues paid."
"But—confound it, sir—a gentleman's word—"
"Mr. Meyrick," put in Minot, "may I be allowed to say that I consider your action hasty—"
"And may I be allowed to ask what affair this is of yours?" demanded Mr. Meyrick hotly.
"Father!" cried Miss Meyrick. "Please do not be harsh with Mr. Minot. His heart is absolutely set on my marriage with Lord Harrowby. Naturally he feels very badly over all this."
Minot winced.
"Come, Cynthia," said Meyrick, moving toward the door. "I've had enough of this play-acting. Remember, sir—the wedding is off—absolutely off—until you are able to establish your identity beyond question."
And he and his daughter went out. Minot sat for a long time staring at Lord Harrowby. Finally he spoke.
"Say, Harrowby," he inquired, "who the devil are you?"
His lordship sadly shook his head.
"You, too, Brutus," he sighed. "Haven't I one friend left? I'm Allan Harrowby. Ask Jephson. If I weren't, that policy that's causing you so much trouble wouldn't be worth the paper it's written on."
"That's right, too. Well, admitting you're Harrowby, how are you going to prove it?"
"I've an idea," Harrowby replied.
"Everything comes to him who waits. What is it?"
"A very good friend of mine—an old Oxford friend—is attached to our embassy at Washington. He was planning to come down for the wedding. I'll telegraph him to board the next train."
"Good boy," said Minot. "That's a regular idea. Better send the wire at once."
Harrowby promised, and they parted. In the lobby below Mr. Minot met Jack Paddock. Paddock looked drawn and worried.
"Working up my stuff for the dinner the little Lismore lady is giving to the bridal party to-morrow night," he confided. "Say, it's no cinch to do two of them. Can't you suggest a topic that's liable to come up."
"Yes," replied Minot. "I can suggest one. Fake noblemen." And he related to Mr. Paddock the astounding events of the morning.
That Sunday that had begun so startlingly progressed as a Sunday should, in peace. Early in the afternoon Harrowby hunted Minot up and announced that his friend would arrive Monday noon, and that the Meyricks had agreed to take no definite step pending his arrival.
Shortly after six o'clock a delayed telegram was delivered to Mr. Minot. It was from Mr. Thacker, and it read:
"Have located the owner of the yachtLilethits real name theLady Evelynstolen from owner in North River he is on his way south will look you up on arrival."
Minot whistled. Here was a new twist for the drama to take.
At about the same time that Minot received his message, a similar slip of yellow paper was put into the hands of Lord Harrowby. Three times he read it, his eyes staring, his cheeks flushed.
Then he fled to his rooms. The elevator was not quick enough; he sped up the stairs. Once in his suite he dragged out the nearest traveling-bag and began to pack like a mad man.
Mr. Minot was finishing a leisurely and lonely dinner about an hour later when Jack Paddock ran up to his table. Mr. Paddock's usual calm was sadly ruffled.
"Dick," he cried, "here's news for you. I met Lord Harrowby sliding out a side door with a suit-case just now."
Minot leaped to his feet.
"What does that mean?" he wondered aloud.
"Mean?" answered Mr. Paddock. "It means just one thing. Old George had the right dope. Harrowby is a fake. He's making his get-away."
Minot threw down his napkin.
"Oh, he is, is he?" he cried. "Well, I guess not. Come on, Jack."
"What are you going to do?"
"I'm going down to the station and stop him. He's caused me too much trouble to let him slide out like this. A fake, eh? Well, I'll have him behind the bars to-night."
A negro cab driver was, by superhuman efforts, roused to hasty action. He rattled the two young men wildly down the silent street to the railway station. They dashed into the drab little waiting room just as a voice called:
"Train for the north! Jacksonville! Savannah! Washington! New York!"
"There he is!" Paddock cried, and pointed to the lean figure of Lord Harrowby slipping out the door nearest the train-shed.
Paddock and Minot ran across the waiting room and out into the open. In the distance they saw Harrowby passing through the gate and on to the tracks. They ran up just in time to have the gate banged shut in their faces.
"Here," cried Minot. "I've got to get in there. Let me through!"
"Where's your ticket?" demanded the great stone face on guard.
"I haven't got one, but—"
"Too late anyhow," said the face. "The train's started."
Through the wooden pickets Minot saw the long yellow string of coaches slipping by. He turned to Paddock.
"Oh, very well," he cried, exulting. "Let him go. Come on!"
He dashed back to the carriage that had brought them from the hotel, the driver of which sat in a stupor trying to regain his wits and nonchalance.
"What now?" Paddock wanted to know.
"Get in!" commanded Minot. He pushed his friend on to the musty seat, and followed.
"To the De la Pax," he cried, "as fast as you can go."
"But what the devil's the need of hurrying now?" demanded Paddock.
"All the need in the world," replied Minot joyously. "I'm going to have a talk with Cynthia Meyrick. A little talk—alone."
"Ah," said Mr. Paddock softly, "love's young dream."
The moon was shining in that city of the picturesque past. Its light fell silvery on the narrow streets, the old adobe houses, the listless palms. In every shadow seemed to lurk the memory of a love long dead—a love of the old passionate Spanish days. A soft breeze came whispering from the very sea Ponce de Leon had sailed. It was as if at a signal—a bugle-call, a rose thrown from a window, the boom of a cannon at the water's edge—the forgotten past of hot hearts, of arms equally ready for cutlass or slender waist, could live again.
And Minot was as one who had heard such a signal. He loved. The obstacle that had confronted him, wrung his heart, left him helpless, was swept away. He was like a man who, released from prison, sees the sky, the green trees, the hills again. He loved! The moon was shining!
He stood amid the colorful blooms of the hotel courtyard and looked up at her window, with its white curtain waving gently in the breeze. He called, softly. And then he saw her face, peering out as some senorita of the old days from her lattice—
"I've news—very important news," he said. "May I see you a moment?"
Far better this than the telephone or the bellboy. Far more in keeping with the magic of the night.
She came, dressed in the white that set off so well her hair of gleaming copper. Minot met her on the veranda. She smiled into his eyes inquiringly.
"Do you mind—a little walk?" he asked.
"Where to?"
"Say to the fort—the longest way."
She glanced back toward the hotel.
"I'm not sure that I ought—"
"But that will only make it the more exciting. Please. And I've news—real news."
She nodded her head, and they crossed the courtyard to the avenue. From this bright thoroughfare they turned in a moment into a dark and unkempt street.
"See," said Minot suddenly, "the old Spanish churchyard. They built cities around churches in the old days. The world do move. It's railroad stations now."
They stood peering through the gloom at a small chapel dim amid the trees, and aged stones leaning tipsily among the weeds.
"At the altar of that chapel," Minot said, "a priest fell—shot in the back by an Indian's arrow. Sounds unreal, doesn't it? And when you think that under these musty stones lies the dust of folks who walked this very ground, and loved, and hated, like you and—"
"Yes—but isn't it all rather gloomy?" Cynthia Meyrick shuddered.
They went on, to pass shortly through the crumbling remains of the city gates. There at the water's edge the great gray fort loomed in the moonlight like a historical novelist's dream. Its huge iron-bound doors were locked for the night; its custodian home in the bosom of his family. Only its lower ramparts were left for the feet of romantic youth to tread.
Along these ramparts, close to the shimmering sea, Miss Meyrick and Minot walked. Truth to tell, it was not so very difficult to keep one's footing—but once the girl was forced to hold out an appealing hand.
"French heels are treacherous," she explained.
Minot took her hand, and for the first time knew the thrill that, encountered often on the printed page, he had mentally classed as "rubbish!" Wisely she interrupted it:
"You said you had news?"
He had, but it was not so easy to impart as he had expected.
"Tell me," he said, "if it should turn out that what poor old George said this morning was a fact—that Allan Harrowby was an impostor—would you feel so very badly?"
She withdrew her hand.
"You have no right to ask that," she replied.
"Forgive me. Indeed I haven't. But I was moved to ask it for the reason that—what George said was evidently true. Allan Harrowby left suddenly for the north an hour ago."
The girl stood still, looking with wide eyes out over the sea.
"Left—for the north," she repeated. There was a long silence. At length she turned to Minot, a queer light in her eyes. "Of course, you'll go after him and bring him back?" she asked.
"No." Minot bowed his head. "I know I must have looked rather silly of late. But if you think I did the things I've done because I chose to—you're wrong. If you think I did them because I didn't love you—you're wrong, too. Oh, I—"
"Mr. Minot!"
"I can't help it. I know it's indecently soon—I've got to tell you just the same. There's been so much in the way—I'm wild to say it now. I love you."
The water breaking on the ancient stones below seemed to be repeating "Sh—sh," but Minot paid no heed to the warning.
"I've cared for you," he went on, "ever since that morning on the train when we raced the razor-backs—ever since that wonderful ride over a God-forsaken road that looked like Heaven to me. And every time since that I've seen you I've known that I'd come to care more—"
The girl stood and stared thoughtfully out at the soft blue sea. Minot moved closer, over those perilous slippery rocks.
"I know it's an old story to you," he went on, "and that I'd be a fool to hope that I could possibly be anything but just another man who adores you. But—because I love you so much—"
She turned and looked at him.
"And in spite of all this," she said slowly, "from the first you have done everything in your power to prevent the breaking off of my engagement to Harrowby."
"Yes, but—"
"Weren't you overly chivalrous to a rival? Wouldn't what—what you are saying be more convincing if you had remained neutral?"
"I know. I can't explain it to you now. It's all over, anyway. It was horrible while it lasted—but it's over now. I'm never going to work again for your marriage to anybody—except one man. The man who is standing before you—who loves you—loves you—"
He stopped, for the girl was smiling. And it was not the sort of smile that his words were entitled to.
"I'm sorry, really," she said. "But I can't help it. All I can see now is your triumphant entrance last night—your masterly exposure of that silly necklace—your clever destruction of every obstacle in order that Harrowby and I might be married on Tuesday. In the light of all that has happened—how can you expect to appear other than—"
"Foolish? You're right. And you couldn't possibly care—just a little—"
He stopped, embarrassed. Poorly chosen words, those last. He saw the light of recollection in her eye.
"I should say," he went on hastily, "isn't there just a faint gleam of hope—for me—"
"If we were back on the train," she said, "and all that followed could be different—and Harrowby had never been—I might—"
"You might—yes?"
"I might not say what I'm going to say now. Which is—hadn't we better return to the hotel?"
"I'm sorry," remarked Minot. "Sorry I had the bad taste to say what I have at this time—but if you knew and could understand—which you can't of course— Yes, let's go back to the hotel—the shortest way."
He turned, and looked toward the towers of the De la Pax rising to meet the sky—seemingly a million miles away. So Peary might have gazed to the north, setting out for the Pole.
They went back along the ramparts, over the dry moat, through the crumbling gates. Conversation languished. Then the ancient graveyard, ghastly in the gloom. After that the long lighted street of humble shops. And the shortest way home seemed a million times longer than the longest way there.
"Considering what you have told me of—Harrowby," she said, "I shall be leaving for the north soon. Will you look me up in New York?"
"Thank you," Minot said. "It will be a very great privilege."
Cynthia Meyrick entered the elevator, and out of sight in that gilded cage she smiled a twisted little smile.
Mr. Minot beheld Mr. Trimmer and his "proposition" basking in the lime-light of the De la Pax, and feeling in no mood to listen to the publicity man's triumphant cackle, he hurried to the veranda. There he found a bell-boy calling his name.
"Gen'lemun to see you," the boy explained. He led the way back into the lobby and up to a tall athletic-looking man with a ruddy, frank, attractive face.
The stranger held out his hand.
"Mr. Minot, of Lloyds?" he asked. "How do you do, sir? I'm very glad to know you. Promised Thacker I'd look you up at once. Let's adjourn to the grill-room."
Minot followed in the wake of the tall breezy one. Already he liked the man immensely.
"Well," said the stranger, over a table in the grill, "what'll you have? Waiter? Perhaps you heard I was coming. I happen to be the owner of the yacht in the harbor, which somebody has rechristened theLileth."
"Yes—I thought so," Minot replied. "I'm mighty glad you've come. A Mr. Martin Wall is posing as the owner just at present."
"So I learned from Thacker. Nervy lad, this Wall. I live in Chicago myself—left my boat—Lady Evelyn, I called her—in the North River for the winter in charge of a caretaker. This Wall, it seems, needed a boat for a month and took a fancy to mine. And since my caretaker was evidently a crook, it was a simple matter to rent it. Never would have found it out except for you people. Too busy. Really ought not to have taken this trip—business needs me every minute—but I've got sort of a hankering to meet Mr. Martin Wall."
"Shall we go out to the boat right away?"
"No need of that. We'll run out in the morning with the proper authorities." The stranger leaned across the table, and something in his blue eyes startled Minot. "In the meantime," he said, "I happen to be interested in another matter. What's all this talk about George Harrowby coming back to life?"
"Well, there's a chap here," Minot explained, "who claims to be the elder brother of Allan Harrowby. His cause is in the hands of an advertising expert named Trimmer."
"Yes. I saw a story in a Washington paper."
"This morning George Harrowby, so-called, confronted Allan Harrowby and denounced Allan himself as a fraud."
The man from Chicago threw back his head, and a roar of unexpected laughter smote on Minot's hearing.
"Good joke," said the stranger.
"No joke at all. George was right—at least, so it seems. Allan Harrowby cleared out this evening."
"Yes. So I was told by the clerk in there. Do you happen to know—er—Allan?"
"Yes. Very well indeed."
"But you don't know the reason he left?"
"Why," answered Minot, "I suppose because George Harrowby gave him twenty-four hours to get out of town."
Again the Chicago man laughed.
"That can't have been the reason," he said. "I happen to know."
"Just how," inquired Minot, "do you happen to know?"
Leaning far back in his chair, the westerner smiled at Minot with a broad engaging smile.
"I fancy I neglected to introduce myself," he said. "I make automobiles in Chicago—and my name's George Harrowby."
"You—you—" Minot's head went round dizzily. "Oh, no," he said firmly. "I don't believe it."
The other's smile grew even broader.
"Don't blame you a bit, my boy," he said. "Must have been a bit of a mix-up down here. Then, too, I don't look like an Englishman. Don't want to. I'm an American now, and I like it."
"You mean you're the real Lord Harrowby?"
"That's what I mean—take it slowly, Mr. Minot. I'm George, and if Allan ever gets his eyes on me, I won't have to prove who I am. He'll know, the kid will. But by the way—what I want now is to meet this chap who claims to be me—also his friend, Mr. Trimmer."
"Of course you do. I saw them out in the lobby a minute ago." Minot rose. "I'll bring them in. But—but—"
"What is it?"
"Oh, never mind. I believe you."
Trimmer and his proposition still adorned the lobby, puffed with pride and pompousness. Briefly Minot explained that a gentleman in the grill-room desired to be introduced, and graciously the two followed after. The Chicago George Harrowby rose as he saw the group approach his table. Suddenly behind him Minot heard a voice:
"My God!" And the limp Englishman of the sandwich boards made a long lean streak toward the door. Minot leaped after him, and dragged him back.
"Here, Trimmer," he said, "your proposition has chilblains."
"What's the trouble?" Mr. Trimmer glared about him.
"Allow me," said Minot. "Sir—our leading vaudeville actor and his manager. Gentlemen—Mr. George Harrowby, of Chicago!"
"Sit down, boys," said Mr. Harrowby genially. He indicated a chair to Mr. Trimmer, but that gentleman stood, his eyes frozen to the face of his proposition. The Chicago man turned to that same proposition. "Brace up, Jenkins," he said. "Nobody will hurt you."
But Jenkins could not brace. He allowed Minot to deposit his limp body in a chair.
"I thought you was dead, sir," he mumbled.
"A common mistake," smiled George Harrowby. "My family has thought the same, and I've been too busy making automobiles to tell them differently. Mr. Trimmer, will you have a—what's the matter, man?"
For Mr. Trimmer was standing, purple, over his proposition.
"I want to get this straight," he said with assumed calm. "See here, you cringing cur—what does this mean?"
"I thought he was dead," murmured poor Jenkins in terror.
"You'll think the same about yourself in a minute—and you'll beright," Trimmer predicted.
"Come, come," said George Harrowby pacifically. "Sit down, Mr. Trimmer. Sit down and have a drink. Do you mean to say you didn't know Jenkins here was faking?"
"Of course I didn't," said Trimmer. He sat down on the extreme edge of a chair, as one who proposed to rise soon. "All this has got me going. I never went round in royal circles before, and I'm dizzy. I suppose you're the real Lord Harrowby?"
"To be quite correct, I am. Don't you believe it?"
"I can believe anything—when I look at him," said Trimmer, indicating the pitiable ex-claimant to the title. "Say, who is this Jenkins we hear so much about?"
"Jenkins was the son of my father's valet," George Harrowby explained. "He came to America with me. We parted suddenly on a ranch in southern Arizona."
"Everybody said you was dead," persisted Jenkins, as one who could not lose sight of that fact.
"Yes? And they gave you my letters and belongings, eh? So you thought you'd pose as me?"
"Yes, sir," confessed Jenkins humbly.
Mr. Trimmer slid farther back into his chair.
"Well," he said, "it's unbelievable, but Henry Trimmer has been buncoed. I met this able liar in a boarding-house in New York, and he convinced me he was Lord Harrowby. It was between jobs for me, and I had a bright idea. If I brought this guy down to the wedding, established him as the real lord, and raised Cain generally, I figured my stock as a publicity man would rise a hundred per cent. I'd be turning down fifty-thousand-dollar jobs right and left. I suppose I was easy, but I'd never mixed up with such things before, and all the dope he had impressed me—the family coat of arms, and the motto—"
The Chicago man laughed softly.
"Credo Harrowby," he said.
"That was it—trust Harrowby," said Trimmer bitterly. "Lord, what a fool I've been. And it's ruined my career. I'll be the laughing-stock—"
"Oh, cheer up, Mr. Trimmer," smiled George Harrowby. "I'm sure you're unduly pessimistic about your career. I'll have something to say to you on that score later. For the present—"
"For the present," broke in Trimmer with fervor, "iron bars for Jenkins here. I'll swear out the warrant myself—"
"Nonsense," said Harrowby, "Jenkins is the most harmless creature in the world. Led astray by ambition, that's all. With any one but Allan his claims wouldn't have lasted five minutes. Poor Allan always was a helpless youngster."
"Oh—Jenkins," broke in Minot suddenly. "What was the idea this morning? I mean your calling Allan Harrowby an impostor?"
Jenkins hung his head.
"I was rattled," he admitted. "I couldn't keep it up before all those people. So it came to me in a flash—if I said Allan was a fraud maybe I wouldn't have to be cross-examined myself."
"And that was really Allan Harrowby?"
"Yes—that was Allan, right enough."
Mr. Minot sat studying the wall in front of him. He was recalling a walk through the moonlight to the fort. Jephson and Thacker pointed accusing fingers at him over the oceans and lands between.
"I say—let Jenkins go," continued the genial western Harrowby, "provided he returns my property and clears out for good. After all, his father was a faithful servant, if he is not."
"But," objected Trimmer, "he's wasted my time. He's put a crimp in the career of the best publicity man in America it'll take years to straighten out—"
"Not necessarily," said Harrowby. "I was coming to that. I've been watching your work for the last week, and I like it. It's alive—progressive. We're putting out a new car this spring—an inexpensive little car bound to make a hit. I need a man like you to convince the public—"
Mr. Trimmer's eyes opened wide. They shone. He turned and regarded the unhappy Jenkins.
"Clear out," he commanded. "If I ever see you again I'll wring your neck. Now, Mr. Harrowby, you were saying—"
"Just a minute," said Harrowby. "This man has certain letters and papers of mine—"
"No, he hasn't," Trimmer replied. "I got 'em. Right here in my pocket." He slid a packet of papers across the table. "They're yours. Now, about—"
Jenkins was slipping silently away. Like a frightened wraith he flitted gratefully through the swinging doors.
"A middle-class car," explained Harrowby, "and I want a live man to boost it—"
"Beg pardon," interrupted Minot, rising, "I'll say good night. We'll get together about that other matter in the morning. By the way, Mr. Harrowby, have you any idea what has become of Allan?"
"No, I haven't. I sent him a telegram this afternoon saying that I was on my way here. Must have run off on business. Of course, he'll be back for his wedding."
"Oh, yes—of course," Minot agreed sadly, "he'll be back for his wedding. Good night, gentlemen."
A few minutes later he stood at the window of 389, gazing out at the narrow street, at the stately Manhattan Club, and the old Spanish houses on either side.
"And she refused me!" he muttered. "To think that should be the biggest piece of luck that's come to me since I hit this accursed town!"
He continued to gaze gloomily out. The—er—moon was still shining.
Minot rose early on Monday morning and went for a walk along the beach. He had awakened to black despair, but the sun and the matutinal breeze elevated his spirits considerably. Where was Allan Harrowby? Gone, with his wedding little more than twenty-four hours away. If he should not return—golden thought. By his own act he would forfeit his claim on Jephson, and Minot would be free to—
To what? Before him in the morning glow the great gray fort rose to crush his hopes. There on those slanting ramparts she had smiled at his declaration. Smiled, and labeled him foolish. Well, foolish he must have seemed. But there was still hope. If only Allan Harrowby did not return.
Mr. Trimmer, his head down, breathing hard, marched along the beach like a man with a destination. Seeing Minot, he stopped suddenly.
"Good morning," he said, holding out his hand, with a smile. "No reason why we shouldn't be friends, eh? None whatever. You're out early. So am I. Thinking up ideas for the automobile campaign."
Minot laughed.
"You leap from one proposition to another with wonderful aplomb," he said.
"The agile mountain goat hopping from peak to peak," Trimmer replied. "That's me. Oh, I'm the goat all right. Sad old Jenkins put it all over me, didn't he?"
"I'm afraid he did. Where is he?"
"Ask of the railway folder. He lit out in the night. Say—he did have a convincing way with him—you know it."
"He surely did."
"Well, the best of us make mistakes," admitted Mr. Trimmer. "The trouble with me is I'm too enthusiastic. Once I get an idea, I see rosy for miles ahead. As I look back I realize that I actually helped Jenkins prove to me that he was Lord Harrowby. I was so anxious for him to do it—the chance seemed so gorgeous. And if I'd put it over—but there. The automobile business looks mighty good to me now. Watch the papers for details. And when you get back to Broadway, keep a lookout for the hand of Trimmer writing in fire on the sky."
"I will," promised Minot, laughing. He turned back to the hotel shortly after. His meeting with Trimmer had cheered him mightily. With a hopeful eye worthy of Trimmer himself, he looked toward the future. Twenty-four hours would decide it. If only Allan failed to return!
The first man Minot saw when he entered the lobby of the De la Pax was Allan Harrowby, his eyes tired with travel, handing over a suit-case to an eager black boy.
What was the use? Listlessly Minot relinquished his last hope. He followed Harrowby, and touched his arm.
"Good morning," he said drearily. "You gave us all quite a turn last night. We thought you'd taken the advice you got in the morning, and cleared out for good."
"Well, hardly," Harrowby replied. "Come up to the room, old man. I'll explain there."
"Before we go up," replied Minot, "I want you to get Miss Meyrick on the phone and tell her you've returned. Yes—right away. You see—last night I rather misunderstood—I thought you weren't Allan Harrowby after all—and I'm afraid I gave Miss Meyrick a wrong impression."
"By gad—I should have told her I was going," Harrowby replied. "But I was so rattled, you know—"
He went into a booth. His brief talk ended, he and Minot entered the elevator. Once in his suite, Harrowby dropped wearily into a chair.
"Confound your stupid trains. I've been traveling for ages. Now, Minot, I'll tell you what carried me off. Yesterday afternoon I got a message from my brother George saying he was on his way here."
"Yes?"
"Seems he's alive and in business in Chicago. The news excited me a bit, old boy. I pictured George rushing in here, and the word spreading that I was not to be the Earl of Raybrook, after all. I'm frightfully fond of Miss Meyrick, and I want that wedding to take place to-morrow. Then, too, there's Jephson. Understand me—Cynthia is not marrying me for my title. I'd stake my life on that. But there's the father and Aunt Mary—and considering the number of times the old gentleman has forbidden the wedding already—"
"You saw it was up to you, for once."
"Exactly. So for my own sake—and Jephson's—I boarded a train for Jacksonville with the idea of meeting George's train there and coming on here with him. I was going to ask George not to make himself known for a couple of days. Then I proposed to tell Cynthia, and Cynthia only, of his existence. If she objected, all very well—but I'm sure she wouldn't. And I'm sure, too, that George would have done what I asked—he always was a bully chap. But—I missed him. These confounded trains—always late. Except when you want them to be. I dare say George is here by this time?"
"He is," Minot replied. "Came a few hours after you left. And by the way, I arranged a meeting for him with Trimmer and his proposition. The proposition fled into the night. It seems he was the son of an old servant of your father's—Jenkins by name."
"Surely! Surely that was Jenkins! I thought I'd seen the chap somewhere—couldn't quite recall— Well, at any rate, he's out of the way. Now the thing to do is to see good old George at once—"
He went to the telephone, and got his brother's room.
"George!" A surprising note of affection crept into his lordship's voice. "George, old boy—this is Allan. I'm waiting for you in my rooms."
"Dear old chap," said his lordship, turning away from the telephone. "Twenty-three years since he has seen one of his own flesh and blood! Twenty-three years of wandering in this God-forsaken country—I beg your pardon, Minot. I wonder what he'll say to me. I wonder what George will say after all those years."
Nervously Allan Harrowby walked the floor. In a moment the door opened, and the tall, blond Chicago man stood in the doorway. His blue eyes glowed. Without a word he came into the room, and gripped the hand of his brother, then stood gazing as if he would never get enough.
And then George Harrowby spoke.
"Is that a ready-made suit you have on, Allan?" he asked huskily.
"Why—why—yes, George."
"I thought so. It's a rotten bad fit, Allan. A rotten bad fit."
Thus did George Harrowby greet the first of his kin he had seen in a quarter of a century. Thus did he give the lie to fiction, and to Trimmer, writer of "fancy seeing you after all these years" speeches.
He dropped his younger brother's hand and strode to the window. He looked out. The courtyard of the De la Pax was strangely misty even in the morning sunlight. Then he turned, smiling.
"How's the old boy?" he asked.
"He's well, George. Speaks of you—now and then. Think he'd like to see you. Why not run over and look him up?"
"I will." George Harrowby turned again to the window. "Ought to have buried the hatchet long ago. Been so busy—but I'll change all that. I'll run over and see him first chance I get—and I'll write to him to-day."
"Good. Great to see you again, George. Heard you'd shuffled off."
"Not much. Alive and well in Chicago. Great to see you."
"Suppose you know about the wedding?"
"Yes. Fine girl, too. Had a waiter point her out to me at breakfast—rather rude, but I was in a hurry to see her. Er—pretty far gone and all that, Allan?"
"Pretty far gone."
"That's the eye. I was afraid it might be a financial proposition until I saw the girl."
Allan shifted nervously.
"Ah—er—of course, you're Lord Harrowby," he said.
George Harrowby threw back his head and laughed his hearty pleasant laugh.
"Sit down, kid," he said. And the scion of nobility, thus informally addressed, sat.
"I thought you'd come at me with the title," said George Harrowby, also dropping into a chair. "Don't go, Mr. Minot—no secrets here. Allan, you and your wife must come out and see us. Got a wife myself—fine girl—she's from Marion, Indiana. And I've got two of the liveliest little Americans you ever saw. Live in a little Chicago suburb—homey house, shady street, neighbors all from down country way. Gibson's drawings on the walls, George Ade's books on the tables, phonograph in the corner with all of George M. Cohan's songs. Whole family wakes in the morning ready for a McCutcheon cartoon. My boys talk about nothing but Cubs and White Sox all summer. They're going to a western university in a few years. We raised 'em on James Whitcomb Riley's poems. Well, Allan——"