His audience sat fascinated. All who listened felt that his words rang true—even Lord Harrowby himself, sitting far forward, his hand gripping the seat in front of him, until the white of his knuckles showed through.
Next the speaker shifted his scene to Eton, thrilled his hearers with the story of his revolt against Oxford, of his flight to the States, his wild days in Arizona. And he pulled out of his pocket a letter written by the old Earl of Raybrook himself, profanely expostulating with him for his madness, and begging that he return to ascend to the earldom when the old man was no more.
The "real Lord Harrowby" finished reading this somewhat pathetic appeal with a little break in his voice, and stood looking out at the audience.
"If my brother Allan himself were in the house," he said, "he would have to admit that it is our father speaking in that letter."
A rustle of interest ran through the auditorium. The few who had recognized Harrowby turned to stare at him now. For a moment he sat
