He indicated a chair to Mr. Trimmer, but that gentleman stood, his eyes frozen to the face of his proposition. The Chicago man turned to that same proposition. "Brace up, Jenkins," he said. "Nobody will hurt you."
But Jenkins could not brace. He allowed Minot to deposit his limp body in a chair.
"I thought you was dead, sir," he mumbled.
"A common mistake," smiled George Harrowby. "My family has thought the same, and I've been too busy making automobiles to tell them differently. Mr. Trimmer, will you have a—what's the matter, man?"
For Mr. Trimmer was standing, purple, over his proposition.
"I want to get this straight," he said with assumed calm. "See here, you cringing cur—what does this mean?"
"I thought he was dead," murmured poor Jenkins in terror.
"You'll think the same about yourself in a minute—and you'll be right," Trimmer predicted.
"Come, come," said George Harrowby pacifically. "Sit down, Mr. Trimmer. Sit down and
