"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. CHAPTER XVIII "A ROTTEN BAD FIT"