“And I suppose yours was a cock-and-bull story, too,” he said. “Of course, it must have been, since Lord Chetney is not dead. But don’t tell me,” he protested, “that you are not Chudleigh’s son either.” “I’m sorry,” said the youngest member, smiling in some embarrassment, “but my name is not Chudleigh. I assure you, though, that I know the family very well, and that I am on very good terms with them.” “You should be!” exclaimed the Baronet; “and, judging from the liberties you take with the Chetneys, you had better be on very good terms with them, too.” The young man leaned back and glanced toward the servants at the far end of the room. “It has been so long since I have been in the Club,” he said, “that I doubt if even the waiters remember me. Perhaps Joseph may,” he added. “Joseph!” he called, and at the word a servant stepped briskly forward. The young man pointed to the stuffed head of a great lion which was suspended above the fireplace. “Joseph,” he said, “I want you to tell these gentlemen who shot that lion. Who presented it to the Grill?” Joseph, unused to acting as master of ceremonies to members of the Club, shifted nervously from one foot to the other. “Why, you--you did,” he stammered. “Of course I did!” exclaimed the young man. “I mean, what is the name of the man who shot it! Tell the gentlemen who I am. They wouldn’t believe me.” “Who you are, my lord?” said Joseph. “You are Lord Edam’s son, the Earl of Chetney.” “You must admit,” said Lord Chetney, when the noise had died away, “that I couldn’t remain dead while my little brother was accused of murder. I had to do something. Family pride demanded it. Now, Arthur, as the younger brother, can’t afford to be squeamish, but personally I should hate to have a brother of mine hanged for murder.” “You certainly showed no scruples against hanging me,” said the American, “but in the face of your evidence I admit my guilt, and I sentence myself to pay the full penalty of the law as we are made to pay it in my own country. The order of this court is,” he announced, “that Joseph shall bring me a wine-card, and that I sign it for five bottles of the Club’s best champagne.” “Oh, no!” protested the man with the pearl stud, “it is not for _you_ to sign it. In my opinion it is Sir Andrew who should pay the costs. It is time you knew,” he said, turning to that gentleman, “that unconsciously you have been the victim of what I may call a patriotic conspiracy. These stories have had a more serious purpose than merely to amuse. They have been told with the worthy object of detaining you from the House of Commons. I must explain to you, that all through this evening I have had a servant waiting in Trafalgar Square with instructions to bring me word as soon as the light over the House of Commons had ceased to burn. The light is now out, and the object for which we plotted is attained.”