"I'll do it," said George sweetly, "when I meet a real Harrowby. In the meantime, I give you twenty-four hours to get out of town. You'd better go."
Victorious, George turned toward the door. Trimmer, lost between admiration and doubt, turned also.
"Take my advice," George proclaimed. "Make him prove who he is. That's the important point now. What does it matter to you who I am? Nothing. But it matters a lot about him. Make him prove that he's Allan Harrowby."
And, with the imperious manner that he should have adopted on entering the room, George Harrowby left it. Mr. Trimmer, eclipsed for once trotted at his side.
"Say," cried Trimmer in the hall, "is that on the level? Isn't he Allan Harrowby?"
"I should say not," said George grandly. "Doesn't look anything like Allan."
Trimmer chortled in glee.
"Great stuff," he cried. "I guess we tossed a bomb, eh? Now, we'll run him out of town."
"Oh, no," said George. "We've done our work
