CHAPTER XVI
WHO'S WHO IN ENGLAND
"WHAT'S the matter with you?"
Seated in the lobby of the De la Pax on Sunday morning, Mr. Trimmer turned a disapproving eye upon the lank Englishman at his side as he made this query. And his question was not without good foundation. For the aspirant to the title of Lord Harrowby was at the moment a jelly quaking with fear.
"Fawncy meeting you after all these years," said poor old George in an uncertain treble.
"Come, come," cried Mr. Trimmer, "put a little more authority into your voice. You can't walk up and claim your rights with your knees dancing the tango. This is the moment we've been looking forward to. Act determined. Walk into that room up-stairs as though you were walking into Rakedale Hall to take charge of it."
"Allan, don't you know me—I'm your brother George," went on the Englishman, intent on rehearsing.
"More like it," said Trimmer. "Put the fire into it. You're not expecting a thrashing, you know. You're expecting the title and recognition that belongs to you. I wish I was the real Lord Harrowby. I guess I'd show 'em a thing or two."
"I wish you was," agreed poor old George sadly. "Somehow, I don't seem to have the spirit I used to have."
"A good point," commented Trimmer. "Years of wrong and suffering have made you timid. I'll call that to their attention. Five minutes of ten, your lordship."
His lordship groaned.
"All right, I'm ready," he said. "What is it I say as I go in? Oh, yes—" He stepped into the elevator—"Fawncy seeing you after all these years."
The negro elevator boy was somewhat startled at this greeting, but regained his composure and started the car. Mr. Trimmer and his "proposition" shot up toward their great opportunity. In Lord Harrowby's suite that gentleman sat in considerable nervousness, awaiting the undesired encounter. With him sat Miss Meyrick and her father, whom he had thought it necessary to invite to witness the ordeal. Mr. Richard Minot uneasily paced the floor, avoiding as much as possible the glances of Miss Meyrick's brown eyes. Ten o'clock was upon him, and Mr. Minot was no nearer a plan of action than he had been the preceding night.
Every good press agent is not without a live theatrical sense, and Mr. Trimmer was no exception. He left his trembling claimant in the entrance hall and strode into the room.
"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."
"The man's crazy," Allan Harrowby cried. "Raving mad. He's an impostor—this is a trick of his—" He looked helplessly around the circle. In every face he saw doubt, questioning. "Good heavens—you're not going to listen to him? He's come here to prove that he's George Harrowby. Why doesn't he do it?"
"I'll do it," said George sweetly, "when I meet a real Harrowby. In the meantime, I give you twenty-four hours to get out of town. You'd better go."
Victorious, George turned toward the door. Trimmer, lost between admiration and doubt, turned also.
"Take my advice," George proclaimed. "Make him prove who he is. That's the important point now. What does it matter to you who I am? Nothing. But it matters a lot about him. Make him prove that he's Allan Harrowby."
And, with the imperious manner that he should have adopted on entering the room, George Harrowby left it. Mr. Trimmer, eclipsed for once trotted at his side.
"Say," cried Trimmer in the hall, "is that on the level? Isn't he Allan Harrowby?"
"I should say not," said George grandly. "Doesn't look anything like Allan."
Trimmer chortled in glee.
"Great stuff," he cried. "I guess we tossed a bomb, eh? Now, we'll run him out of town."
"Oh, no," said George. "We've done our work here. Let's go over to London now and see the pater."
"That we will," cried Trimmer. "That we will By gad, I'm proud of you to-day, Lord Harrowby."
Inside Allan Harrowby's suite three pairs of questioning eyes were turned on that harassed nobleman. He fidgeted in his chair.
"I say," he pleaded. "It's all his bluff, you know."
"Maybe," said old Spencer Meyrick, rising. "But Harrowby—or whatever your name is—there's altogether too much three-ring circus about this wedding to suit me. My patience is exhausted, sir—clean exhausted. Things look queer to me—have right along.I'm more than inclined to believe what that fellow said."
"But my dear sir—that chap is a rank impostor. There wasn't a word of truth in what he said. Cynthia—you understand—"
"Why, yes—I suppose so," the girl replied. "You are Allan Harrowby, aren't you?"
"My dear girl—of course I am."
"Nevertheless," said Spencer Meyrick with decision, "I'm going to call the wedding off again. Some of your actions haven't made much of a hit with me. I'm going to call it off until you come to me and prove that you're Allan Harrowby—a lord in good and regular standing, with all dues paid."
"But—confound it, sir—a gentleman's word—"
"Mr. Meyrick," put in Minot, "may I be allowed to say that I consider your action hasty—"
"And may I be allowed to ask what affair this is of yours?" demanded Mr. Meyrick hotly.
"Father!" cried Miss Meyrick. "Please do not be harsh with Mr. Minot. His heart is absolutely set on my marriage with Lord Harrowby. Naturally he feels very badly over all this."
Minot winced.
"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 
"He's an imposter—this is a trick!"
"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."
Minot threw down his napkin.
"Oh, he is, is he?" he cried. 'Well, I guess not Come on, Jack."
"What are you going to do?"
"I'm going down to the station and stop him. He's caused me too much trouble to let him slide out like this. A fake, eh? Well, I'll have him behind the bars to-night"
A negro cab driver was, by superhuman efforts, roused to hasty action. He rattled the two young men wildly down the silent street to the railway station. They dashed into the drab little waiting room just as a voice called:
"Train for the north! Jacksonville! Savannah! Washington! New York!"
"There he is!" Paddock cried, and pointed to the lean figure of Lord Harrowby slipping out the door nearest the train-shed.
Paddock and Minot ran across the waiting room and out into the open. In the distance they saw Harrowby passing through the gate and on to the tracks. They ran up just in time to have the gate banged shut in their faces.
"Here," cried Minot. "I've got to get in there. Let me through!"
"Where's your ticket?" demanded the great stone face on guard.
"I haven't got one, but—"
"Too late anyhow," said the face. "The train's started."
Through the wooden pickets Minot saw the long yellow string of coaches slipping by. He turned to Paddock.
"Oh, very well," he cried, exulting. "Let him go. Come on!"
He dashed back to the carriage that had brought them from the hotel, the driver of which sat in a stupor trying to regain his wits and nonchalance.
"What now?" Paddock wanted to know.
"Get in!" commanded Minot. He pushed his friend on to the musty seat, and followed.
"To the De la Pax," he cried, "as fast as you can go."
"But what the devil's the need of hurrying now?" demanded Paddock.
"All the need in the world," replied Minot joyously. "I'm going to have a talk with Cynthia Meyrick. A little talk—alone."
"Ah," said Mr. Paddock softly, "love's young dream."