"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: