"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."