silent, his face a variety of colors in the dim light. Then with a cry of rage he leaped to his feet.
"You stole that letter, you cur," he cried. "You are a liar, a fraud, an impostor."
The man on the stage stood shading his eyes with his hand.
"Ah, Allan," he answered, "so you are here, after all? Is that quite the proper greeting—after all these years?"
A roar of sympathetic applause greeted this sally. There was no doubt as to whose side Mr. Trimmer's friend, the public, was on. Harrowby stood in his place, his lips twitching, his eyes for once blazing and angry.
Dick Minot was by this time escorting Miss Meyrick up the aisle, and they came quickly to the cool street. Harrowby, Paddock and Spencer Meyrick followed immediately. His lordship was most contrite.
"A thousand pardons," he pleaded. "Really I can't tell you how sorry I am, Cynthia. To have made you conspicuous—what was I thinking of? But he maddened me—I—"
"Don't worry, Allan," said Miss Meyrick
