"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 yacht _Lileth_ its real name the _Lady Evelyn_ stolen 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."