get ahead of Trimmer, do you? Think you've put one over, eh? Well—let me tell you, you're wrong. You're in for it now. You've played into my hands. Steal Lord Harrowby, will you? Do you know what that means? Publicity. Do you know what I'll do to-morrow? I'll start a cyclone in this town that—"
"Good night," said Minot, and hung up.
"Who was it?" Harrowby wanted to know.
"Our friend Trimmer, on the war-path," Minot replied. "It seems he's missed his vaudeville partner." He sat down. "See here, Harrowby," he said—it was the first time he had dropped the prefix, "it occurs to me that an unholy lot of things are happening to spoil this wedding. So I'm going to ask you a question."
"Yes."
"Harrowby"—Minot looked straight into the weak, but noble eyes—"are you on the level?"
"Really—I'm not very expert in your astounding language—"
"Are you straight—honest—do you want to be married yourself?"
"Why, Minot, my dear chap! I've told you a
