day. The applause burst forth. It shook the building. From the gallery descended a shrill penetrating whistle of acclaim.
Mr. Minot glanced at the face of the girl beside him. She was looking straight ahead, her cheeks bright red, her eyes flashing with anger. Beyond, the face of Harrowby loomed, frozen, terrible.
"Shall we—go?" Minot whispered.
"By no means," the girl answered. "We should only call attention to our presence here. I know at least fifty people in this audience. We must see it through."
The applause was stilled at last and, supremely fussed, the "real Lord Harrowby" faced that friendly throng.
"Dear—er—people," he said. "As Mr. Trimmer has told you, we seek only justice. I am not here to argue my right to the title I claim—that I can do at the proper time and place. I am simply proposing to go back—back into the past many years—back to the days when I was a boy at Rakedale Hall. I shall picture those days as
