"That can't have been the reason," he said. "I happen to know."
"Just how," inquired Minot, "do you happen to know?"
Leaning far back in his chair, the westerner smiled at Minot with a broad engaging smile.
"I fancy I neglected to introduce myself," he said. "I make automobiles in Chicago—and my name's George Harrowby."
"You—you—" Minot's head went round dizzily. "Oh, no," he said firmly. "I don't believe it."
The other's smile grew even broader.
"Don't blame you a bit, my boy," he said. "Must have been a bit of a mix-up down here. Then, too, I don't look like an Englishman. Don't want to. I'm an American now, and I like it."
"You mean you're the real Lord Harrowby?"
"That's what I mean—take it slowly, Mr. Minot. I'm George, and if Allan ever gets his eyes on me, I won't have to prove who I am. He'll know, the kid will. But by the way—what I want now is to meet this chap who claims to be me—also his friend, Mr. Trimmer."
