"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."