# Love Insurance/Chapter 18

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CHAPTER XVIII
"A ROTTEN BAD FIT"
MINOT rose early on Monday morning and went for a walk along the beach. He had awakened to black despair, but the sun and the matutinal breeze elevated his spirits considerably. Where was Allan Harrowby? Gone, with his wedding little more than twenty-four hours away. If he should not return—golden thought. By his own act he would forfeit his claim on Jephson, and Minot would be free to—
To what? Before him in the morning glow the great gray fort rose to crush his hopes. There on those slanting ramparts she had smiled at his declaration. Smiled, and labeled him foolish. Well, foolish he must have seemed. But there was still hope. If only Allan Harrowby did not return.
Mr. Trimmer, his head down, breathing hard, marched along the beach like a man with a destination. Seeing Minot he stopped suddenly.
​"Good morning," he said, holding out his hand, with a smile. "No reason why we shouldn't be friends, eh? None whatever. You're out early. So am I. Thinking up ideas for the automobile campaign."
Minot laughed.
"You leap from one proposition to another with wonderful aplomb," he said.
"The agile mountain goat hopping from peak to peak," Trimmer replied. "That's me. Oh, I'm the goat all right. Sad old Jenkins put it all over me, didn't he?"
"I'm afraid he did. Where is he?"
"Ask of the railway folder. He lit out in the night. Say—he did have a convincing way with him—you know it."
"He surely did."
"Well, the best of us make mistakes," admitted Mr. Trimmer. "The trouble with me is I'm too enthusiastic. Once I get an idea, I see rosy for miles ahead. As I look back I realize that I actually helped Jenkins prove to me that he was Lord Harrowby. I was so anxious for him to do ​it—the chance seemed so gorgeous. And if I'd put it over—but there. The automobile business looks mighty good to me now. Watch the papers for details. And when you get back to Broadway, keep a lookout for the hand of Trimmer writing in fire on the sky."
"I will," promised Minot, laughing. He turned back to the hotel shortly after. His meeting with Trimmer had cheered him mightily. With a hopeful eye worthy of Trimmer himself, he looked toward the future. Twenty-four hours would decide it. If only Allan failed to return!
The first man Minot saw when he entered the lobby of the De la Pax was Allan Harrowby, his eyes tired with travel, handing over a suit-case to an eager black boy.
What was the use? Listlessly Minot relinquished his last hope. He followed Harrowby, and touched his arm.
"Good morning," he said drearily. "You gave us all quite a turn last night. We thought you'd taken the advice you got in the morning, and cleared out for good."
​"Well, hardly," Harrowby replied. "Come up to the room, old man. I'll explain there."
"Before we go up," replied Minot, "I want you to get Miss Meyrick on the phone and tell her you've returned. Yes—right away. You see—last night I rather misunderstood—I thought you weren't Allan Harrowby after all—and I'm afraid I gave Miss Meyrick a wrong impression."
"By gad—I should have told her I was going," Harrowby replied. "But I was so rattled, you know—"
He went into a booth. His brief talk ended, he and Minot entered the elevator. Once in his suite, Harrowby dropped wearily into a chair.
"Confound your stupid trains. I've been traveling for ages. Now, Minot, I'll tell you what carried me off. Yesterday afternoon I got a message from my brother George saying he was on his way here."
"Yes?"
"Seems he's alive and in business in Chicago. The news excited me a bit, old boy. I pictured George rushing in here, and the word spreading that I was not to be the Earl of Raybrook, after ​all. I'm frightfully fond of Miss Meyrick, and I want that wedding to take place to-morrow. Then, too, there's Jephson. Understand me—Cynthia is not marrying me for my title. I'd stake my life on that. But there's the father and Aunt Mary—and considering the number of times the old gentleman has forbidden the wedding already—"
"You saw it was up to you, for once."
"Exactly. So for my own sake—and Jephson's—I boarded a train for Jacksonville with the idea of meeting George's train there and coming on here with him. I was going to ask George not to make himself known for a couple of days. Then I proposed to tell Cynthia, and Cynthia only, of his existence. If she objected, all very well—but I'm sure she wouldn't. And I'm sure, too, that George would have done what I asked—he always was a bully chap. But—I missed him. These confounded trains—always late. Except when you want them to be. I dare say George is here by this time?"
"He is," Minot replied. "Came a few hours after you left. And by the way, I arranged a ​meeting for him with Trimmer and his proposition. The proposition fled into the night. It seems he was the son of an old servant of your father's—Jenkins by name."
"Surely! Surely that was Jenkins! I thought I'd seen the chap somewhere—couldn't quite recall— Well, at any rate, he's out of the way. Now the thing to do is to see good old George at once—"
He went to the telephone, and got his brother's room.
"George!" A surprising note of affection crept into his lordship's voice. "George, old boy—this is Allan. I'm waiting for you in my rooms."
"Dear old chap," said his lordship, turning away from the telephone. "Twenty-three years since he has seen one of his own flesh and blood! Twenty-three years of wandering in this Godforsaken country—I beg your pardon, Minot. I wonder what he'll say to me. I wonder what George will say after all those years."
Nervously Allan Harrowby walked the floor. In a moment the door opened, and the tall, blond Chicago man stood in the doorway. His blue eyes ​glowed. Without a word he came into the room, and gripped the hand of his brother, then stood gazing as if he would never get enough.
And then George Harrowby spoke.
"Is that a ready-made suit you have on, Allan?" he asked huskily.
"Why—why—yes, George."
"I thought so. It's a rotten bad fit, Allan. A rotten bad fit."
Thus did George Harrowby greet the first of his kin he had seen in a quarter of a century. Thus did he give the lie to fiction, and to Trimmer, writer of "fancy seeing you after all these years" speeches.
He dropped his younger brother's hand and strode to the window. He looked out. The courtyard of the De la Pax was strangely misty even in the morning sunlight. Then he turned, smiling.
"How's the old boy?" he asked.
"He's well, George. Speaks of you—now and then. Think he'd like to see you. Why not run over and look him up?"
"I will." George Harrowby turned again to the ​window. "Ought to have buried the hatchet long ago. Been so busy—but I'll change all that I'll run over and see him first chance I get—and I'll write to him to-day."
"Good. Great to see you again, George. Heard you'd shuffled off."
"Not much. Alive and well in Chicago. Great to see you."
"Suppose you know about the wedding?"
"Yes. Fine girl, too. Had a waiter point her out to me at breakfast—rather rude, but I was in a hurry to see her. Er—pretty far gone and all that, Allan?"
"Pretty far gone."
"That's the eye. I was afraid it might be a financial proposition until I saw the girl."
Allan shifted nervously.
"Ah—er—of course, you're Lord Harrowby," he said.
George Harrowby threw back his head and laughed his hearty pleasant laugh.
"Sit down, kid," he said. And the scion of nobility, thus informally addressed, sat.
"I thought you'd come at me with the title," ​said George Harrowby, also dropping into a chair. "Don't go, Mr. Minot—no secrets here. Allan, you and your wife must come out and see us. Got a wife myself—fine girl—she's from Marion, Indiana. And I've got two of the liveliest little Americans you ever saw. Live in a little Chicago suburb—homey house, shady street, neighbors all from down country way. Gibson's drawings on the walls, George Ade's books on the tables, phonograph in the corner with all of George M. Cohan's songs. Whole family wakes in the morning ready for a McCutcheon cartoon. My boys talk about nothing but Cubs and White Sox all summer. They're going to a western university in a few years. We raised 'em on James Whitcomb Riley's poems. Well, Allan——"
"Well, George——"
"Say, what do you imagine would happen if I went back to a home like that with the news that I was Lord Harrowby, in line to become the Earl of Raybrook. There'd be a riot. Wife would be startled out of her wits. Children would hate me. Be an outcast in my own family. Neighbors would turn up their noses when they went ​by our house. Fellows at the club would guy me. Lord Harrowby, eh! Take off your hats to his ludship, boys. Business would fall off."
Smilingly George Harrowby took a cigar and lighted it.
"No, Allan," he finished, "a lord wouldn't make a hell of a hit anywhere in America, but in Chicago, in the automobile business—say, I'd be as lonesome and deserted as the reading-room of an Elks' Club."
"I don't quite understand——" Allan began.
"No," said George, turning to meet Minot's smile, "but this gentleman does. It all means, Allan, that there's nothing doing. You are Lord Harrowby, the next Earl of Raybrook. Take the title, and God bless you."
"But, George," Allan objected, "legally you can't——"
"Don't worry, Allan," said the man from Chicago, "there's nothing we can't do in America, and do legally. How's this? I've always been intending to take out naturalization papers. I'll do it the minute I get back to Chicago—and then ​the title is yours. In the meantime, when you introduce me to your friends here, we'll just pretend I've taken them out already."
Allan Harrowby got up and laid his hand affectionately on his brother's shoulder.
"You're a brick, old boy," he said. "You always were. I'm glad you're to be here for the wedding. How did you happen to come?"
"That's right—you don't know, do you? I came in response to a telegram from Lloyds, of New York."
"From—er—Lloyds?" asked Allan blankly.
"Yes, Allan. That yacht you came down here on didn't belong to Martin Wall. It belonged to me. He made away with it from North River because he happened to need it. Wall's a crook, my boy."
"The Lileth your ship! My word!"
"It is. I called it the Lady Evelyn, Allan. Lloyds found out that it had been stolen and sent me a wire. So here I am."
"Lloyds found out through me," Minot explained to the dazed Allan.
​"Oh—I'm beginning to see," said Allan slowly. "By the way, George, we've another score to settle with Wall."
He explained briefly how Wall had acquired Chain Lightning's Collar, and returned a duplicate of paste in its place. The elder Harrowby listened with serious face.
"It's no doubt the Collar he was trailing you for, Allan," he said. "And that's how he came to need the yacht. But when finally he got his eager fingers on those diamonds, poor old Wall must have had the shock of his life."
"How's that?"
"It wasn't Wall who had the duplicate made. It was—father—years ago, when I was still at home. He wanted money to bet, as usual—had the duplicate made—risked and lost."
"But," Allan objected, "he gave it to me to give to Miss Meyrick. Surely he wouldn't have done that——"
"How old is he now? Eighty-two? Allan, the old boy must be a little childish by now—he forgot. I'm sure he forgot. That's the only view to take of it."
​A silence fell. In a moment the elder brother said:
"Allan, I want you to assure me again that you're marrying because you love the girl—and for no other reason."
"Straight, George," Allan answered, and looked his brother in the eye.
"Good kid. There's nothing in the other kind of marriage—all unhappiness—all wrong. I was sure you must be on the level—but, you see, after Mr. Thacker—the insurance chap in New York—knew who I was and that I wouldn't take the title, he told me about that fool policy you took out."
"No? Did he?"
"All about it. Sort of knocked me silly for a minute. But I remembered the Harrowby gambling streak—and if you love the girl, and really want to marry her, I can't see any harm in the idea. However, I hope you lose out on the policy. Everything O. K. now? Nothing in the way?"
"Not a thing," Lord Harrowby replied. "Minot here has been a bully help—worked like mad to ​put the wedding through. I owe everything to him."
"Insuring a woman's mind," reflected George Harrowby. "Not a bad idea, Allan. Almost worthy of an American. Still—I could have insured you myself after a fashion—promised you a good job as manager of our new London branch in case the marriage fell through. However, your method is more original."
Allan Harrowby was slowly pacing the room. Suddenly he turned, and despite the fact that all obstacles were removed, he seemed a very much worried young man.
"George—Mr. Minot," he began, "I've a confession to make. It's about that policy." He stopped. "The old family trouble, George. We're gamblers to the bone—all of us. Last Friday night—at the Manhattan Club—I turned over that policy to Martin Wall to hold as security for a five thousand dollar loan."
"Why the devil did you do that?" Minot cried.
"Well——" And Allan Harrowby was in his old state of helplessness again. "I wanted to save ​the day. Gonzale was hounding us for money—I thought I saw a chance to win——"
"But Wall! Wall of all people!"
"I know. I oughtn't to have done it. Knew Wall wasn't altogether straight. But nobody else was about—I got excited—borrowed—lost the whole of it, too. Wha—what are we going to do?"
He looked appealingly at Minot. But for once it was not on Minot's shoulders that the responsibility for action fell. George Harrowby cheerfully took charge.
"I was just on the point of going out to the yacht, with an officer," he said. "Suppose we three run out alone and talk business with Martin Wall."
Fifteen minutes later the two Harrowbys and Minot boarded the yacht which Martin Wall had christened the Lileth. George Harrowby looked about him with interest.
"He's taken very good care of it—I'll say that for him," he remarked.
Martin Wall came suavely forward.
​"Mr. Wall," said Minot pleasantly, "allow me to present Mr. George Harrowby, the owner of the boat on which we now stand."
"I beg our pardon," said Wall, without the quiver of an eyelash. "So careless of me. Don't stand, gentlemen. Have chairs—all of you."
And he stared George Harrowby calmly in the eye.
"You're flippant this morning," said the elder Harrowby. "We'll be glad to sit, thank you. And may I repeat what Mr. Minot has told you—I own this yacht."
"Indeed?" Mr. Wall's face beamed. "You bought it from Wilson, I presume."
"Just who is Wilson?"
"Why—he's the man I rented it from in New York."
"So that's your tale, is it?" Allan Harrowby put in.
"You wound me," protested Mr. Wall. "That is my tale, as you call it. I rented this boat in New York from a man named Albert Wilson. I have the lease to show you, also my receipt for one month's rent."
​"I'll bet you have," commented Minot.
"Bet anything you like. You come from a betting institution, I believe."
"No, Mr. Wall, I did not buy the yacht from Wilson," said George Harrowby. "I've owned it for several years."
"How do I know that?" asked Martin Wall.
"Glance over that," said the elder Harrowby, taking a paper from his pocket. "A precaution you failed to take with Albert Wilson."
"Dear, dear." Mr. Wall looked over the paper and handed it back. "Can it be that Wilson was a fraud? I suggest the police, Mr. Harrowby. I shall be very glad to testify."
"I suggest the police, too," said Minot hotly, "for Mr. Martin Wall. If you thought you had a right on this boat, Wall, why did you throw me overboard into the North River when I mentioned the name of Lloyds?"
Mr. Wall regarded him with pained surprise.
"I threw you overboard because I didn't want you on my boat," he said. "I thought you understood that fully."
"Nonsense," Minot cried. "You stole this boat ​by bribing the caretaker, and when I mentioned Lloyds, famous the world over as a marine insurance firm, you thought I was after you, and threw me over the rail. I see it all very clearly now."
"You're a wise young man——"
"Mr. Wall," George Harrowby broke in, "it may interest you to know that we don't believe a word of the Wilson story. But it may also interest you to know that I am willing to let the whole matter drop—on one condition."
"What's that?"
"My brother Allan here borrowed five thousand dollars from you the other night, and gave you as security a bit of paper quite worthless to any one save himself. Accept my check for five thousand and hand him back the paper."
Mr. Wall smiled. He reached into his inner coat pocket.
"With the greatest pleasure," he said. "Here is the—er—the document." He laughed. Then, noting the check book on the elder Harrowby's knee, he added: "There was a little matter of interest——"
​"Not at all!" George Harrowby looked up. The interest is forfeited to pay wear and tear on this yacht."
For a moment Wall showed fight, but he did not much care for the light he saw in the elder Harrowby's eyes. He recognized a vast difference in brothers.
"Oh—very well," he said. The check was written, and the exchange made.
"Since you are convinced I am the owner of the yacht," said George Harrowby, rising, "I take it you will leave it at once?"
"As soon as I can remove my belongings," Wall said. "A most unfortunate affair all round."
"A fortunate one for you," commented Mr. Minot.
Wall glared.
"My boy," he said angrily, "did any one ever tell you you were a bad-luck jinx?"
"Never," smiled Minot.
"You look like one to me," growled Martin Wall.
George Harrowby arranged to keep the crew ​Wall had engaged, in order to get the Lady Evelyn back to New York. It was thought best for the owner to stay aboard until Wall had gathered his property and departed, so Allan Harrowby and Minot alone returned to San Marco. As they crossed the plaza Allan said:
"By gad—everything looks lovely now. Jenkins out of the way, good old George side-stepping the title, the policy safe in my pocket. Not a thing in the way!"
"It's almost too good to be true," replied Minot, with a very mirthless smile.
"It must be a great relief to you, old boy. You have worked hard. Must feel perfectly jolly over all this?"
"Me?" said Minot. "Oh, I can hardly contain myself for joy. I feel like twining orange blossoms in my hair——"
He walked on, kicking the gravel savagely at each step. Not a thing in the way now. Not a single, solitary, hopeful, little thing.