nious 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.
