the claimant firmly. "I spent my boyhood there. But you've never been there."
"I—what—"
"You've never been at Rakedale Hall. Why? Because you're not Allan Harrowby! That's why."
A deathly silence fell. Only a little traveling clock on the mantel was articulate.
"Absurd—ridiculous—" cried Lord Harrowby.
"Talk about impostors," cried George, his spirit and his courage sweeping back. "You're one yourself. I wish I'd got a good look at you sooner, I'd have put a stop to all this. Allan Harrowby, eh? I guess not. I guess I'd know my own brother if I saw him. I guess I know the Harrowby features. I give you twenty-four hours to get out of town—you blooming fraud."
"The man's crazy," Allan Harrowby cried. "Raving mad. He's an impostor—this is a trick of his—" He looked helplessly around the circle. In every face he saw doubt, questioning. "Good heavens—you're not going to listen to him? He's come here to prove that he's George Harrowby. Why doesn't he do it?"
