"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—"