Oliver Mankell was again in the charge of Warder Slater. Warder Slater looked very queer indeed--he actually seemed to have lost in bulk. The same phenomenon was observable in the chief warder, who followed close upon the prisoner's heels. Mankell seemed, as ever, completely at his ease. There was again a suspicion of a smile in his eyes and about the corners of his lips. His bearing was in striking contrast to that of the officials. His self-possession in the presence of their evident uneasiness gave him the appearance, in a sense, of being a giant among pigmies; yet the Major, at least, was in every way a bigger man than he was. There was silence as he entered, a continuation of that silence which had prevailed until he came. The governor fumbled with a paper-knife which was in front of him. The inspector, leaning forward in his chair, seemed engrossed by his boots. The doctor kept glancing, perhaps unconsciously, at his hat. The chaplain, though conspicuously uneasy, seemed to have his wits about him most. It was he who, temporarily usurping the governor's functions, addressed the prisoner.
"Your name is Oliver Mankell?" The prisoner merely smiled. "You are sentenced to three months' hard labour?" The prisoner smiled again. "For--for pretending to tell fortunes?" The smile became more pronounced. The chaplain cleared his throat. "Oliver Mankell, I am a clergyman. I know that there are such things as good and evil. I know that, for causes which are hidden from me, the Almighty may permit evil to take visible shape and walk abroad upon the earth; but I also know that, though evil may destroy my body, it cannot destroy my soul."
The chaplain pulled up. His words and manner, though evidently sincere, were not particularly impressive. While they evidently had the effect of increasing his colleagues' uneasiness, they only had the effect of enlarging the prisoner's smile. When he was about to continue, the governor interposed.
"I think, Mr. Hewett, if you will permit me. Mankell, I am not a clergyman." The prisoner's smile almost degenerated into a grin. "I have sent for you, for the second time this morning, to ask you frankly if you have any reason to complain of your treatment here?" The prisoner stretched out his hands with his familiar gesture. "Have you any complaint to make? Is there anything, within the range of the prison rules, you would wish me to do for you?" Again the hands went out. "Then tell me, quite candidly, what is the cause of your behaviour?"
When the governor ceased, the prisoner seemed to be considering what answer he should make. Then, inclining his head with that almost saturnine grace, if one may coin a phrase, which seemed to accompany every movement he made:
"Sir, what have I done?" he asked.
"Eh--eh--we--we won't dwell upon that. The question is, What did you do it for?"
"It is perhaps within your recollection, sir, that I have my reputation to redeem, my character to reinstate."
"Your character? What do you mean?"
"In the first interview with which you favoured me, I ventured to observe that it would be my endeavour, during my sojourn within these walls, to act upon the advice the magistrate tendered me."
"What"--the governor rather faltered--"what advice was that?"
"He said I claimed to be a magician. He advised me, for my character's sake, to prove it during my sojourn here."
"I see. And--and you're trying to prove it--for your character's sake?"
"For my character's sake! I am but beginning, you perceive."
"Oh, you're but beginning! You call this but beginning, do you? May I ask if you have any intention of going on?"
"Oh, sir, I have still nearly the whole three months in front of me! Until my term expires I shall go on, with gathering strength, unto the end."
As he said this Mankell drew himself up in such a way that it almost seemed as though some inches were added to his stature.
"You will, will you? Well, you seem to be a pleasant kind of man!" The criticism seemed to have been extracted from the governor almost against his will. He looked round upon his colleagues with what could only be described as a ghastly grin. "Have you any objection, Mankell, to being transferred to another prison?"
"Sir!" the prisoner's voice rang out, and his hearers started--perceptibly. Perhaps that was because their nerves were already so disorganised. "It is here I was sent, it is here I must remain--until the end."
The governor took out his handkerchief and wiped his brow.
"I am bound to tell you, Mankell, judging from the experiences of the last two days, if this sort of thing is to continue--with gathering strength!--the end will not be long."
The prisoner seemed lost in reflection. The officials seemed lost in reflection too; but their reflections were probably of a different kind.
"There is one suggestion I might offer."
"Let's have it by all means. We have reached a point at which we shall be glad to receive any suggestion--from you."
"You might give me a testimonial."
"Give you what?"
"You might give me a testimonial."
The governor looked at the prisoner, then at his friends.
"A testimonial! Might we indeed! What sort of testimonial do you allude to?"
"You might testify that I had regained my reputation, redeemed my character--that I had proved to your entire satisfaction that I was the magician I claimed to be."
The governor leaned back in his seat.
"Your suggestion has at least the force of novelty. I should like to search the registers of remarkable cases, to know if such an application has ever been made to the governor of an English jail before. What do you say, Hardinge?"
The Major shuffled in his chair.
"I--I think I must return to town."
The prisoner smiled. The Major winced.
"That--that fellow's pinned me to my chair," he gasped. He appeared to be making futile efforts to rise from his seat.
"You cannot return to town. Dismiss the idea from your mind."
The Major only groaned. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his brow. The governor looked up from the paper-knife with which he was again trifling.
"Am I to understand that the testimonial is to take the shape of a voluntary offering?"
"Oh, sir! Of what value is a testimonial which is not voluntary?"
"Quite so. How do you suggest it should be worded?"
"May I ask you for paper, pens, and ink?"
The prisoner bent over the table and wrote on the paper which was handed him. What he had written he passed to the governor. Mr. Paley found inscribed, in a beautifully fair round hand, as clear as copperplate, the following "testimonial":--
"The undersigned persons present their compliments to Colonel Gregory. Oliver Mankell, sentenced by Colonel Gregory to three months' hard labour, has been in Canterstone Jail two days. That short space of time has, however, convinced them that Colonel Gregory acted wrongly in distrusting his magic powers, and so casting a stain upon his character. This is to testify that he has proved, to the entire satisfaction of the undersigned inspector of prisons and officials of Canterstone Jail, that he is a magician of quite the highest class."
"The signatures of all those present should be placed at the bottom," observed the prisoner, as the governor was reading the "testimonial."
Apparently at a loss for words with which to comment upon the paper he had read, the governor handed it to the inspector. The Major shrank from taking it.
"I--I'd rather not," he mumbled.
"I think you had better read it," said the governor. Thus urged, the Major did read it.
"Good Lord!" he gasped, and passed it to the doctor.
The doctor silently, having read it, passed it to the chaplain.
"I will read it aloud," said Mr. Hewett. He did so--for the benefit, probably, of Slater and Mr. Murray.
"Supposing we were to sign that document, what would you propose to do with it?" inquired the governor.
"I should convey it to Colonel Gregory."
"Indeed! In that case he would have as high an opinion of our characters as of yours. And yourself--what sort of action might we expect from you?"
"I should go."
The governor's jaw dropped.
"Go? Oh, would you!"
"My character regained, for what have I to stop?"
"Exactly. What have you? There's that point of view, no doubt. Well, Mankell, we will think the matter over."
The prisoner dropped his hands to his sides, looking the governor steadily in the face.
"Sir, I conceive that answer to convey a negative. The proposition thus refused will not be made again. It only remains for me to continue earnestly my endeavours to retrieve my character--until the three months are at an end."
The chaplain was holding the testimonial loosely between his finger and thumb. Stretching out his arm, Mankell pointed at it with his hand. It was immediately in flames. The chaplain releasing it, it was consumed to ashes before it reached the floor. Returning to face the governor gain, the prisoner laid his right hand, palm downwards, on the table: "Spirits of the air, in whose presence I now stand, I ask you if I am not justified in whatever I may do?"
His voice was very musical. His upturned eyes seemed to pierce through the ceiling to what there was beyond. The room grew darker. There was a rumbling in the air. The ground began to shake. The chaplain, who was caressing the hand which had been scorched by the flames, burst out with what was for him a passionate appeal:
"Mr. Mankell, you are over hasty. I was about to explain that I should esteem it quite an honour to sign your testimonial."
"So should I--upon my soul, I should!" declared the Major.
"There's nothing I wouldn't do to oblige you, Mr. Mankell," stammered the chief warder.
"Same 'ere!" cried Warder Slater.
"You really are too rapid in arriving at conclusions, Mr. Mankell," remarked the governor. "I do beg you will not suppose there was any negative intention."
The darkness, the rumbling, and the shaking ceased as suddenly as they began. The prisoner smiled.
"Perhaps I was too hasty," he confessed. "It is an error which can easily be rectified."
He raised his hand. A piece of paper fluttered from the ceiling. It fell upon the table. It was the testimonial.
"Your signature, Major Hardinge, should head the list."
"I--I--I'd rather somebody else signed first."
"That would never do: it is for you to lead the van. You are free to leave your seat."
The Major left his seat, apparently not rejoicing in his freedom. He wrote "William Hardinge" in great sprawling characters.
"Add 'Inspector of Prisons.'"
The Major added "Inspector of Prisons," with a very rueful countenance.
"Mr. Paley, it is your turn."
Mr. Paley took his turn, with a really tolerable imitation of being both ready and willing. Acting on the hint which had been given the Major, he added "Governor" of his own accord.
"Now, doctor, it is you."
The doctor thrust his hands into his trousers' pockets. "I'll sign, if you'll tell me how it is done."
"Tell you how it is done? How what is done?"
"How you do that hanky-panky, of course."
"Hanky-panky!" The prisoner drew himself straight up. "Is it possible that you suspect me of hanky-panky? Yes, sir, I will show you how it's done. If you wish it, you shall be torn asunder where you stand."
"Thank you,--you needn't trouble. I'll sign."
He signed. The chaplain shook his head and sighed.
"I always placed a literal interpretation on the twenty-eighth chapter of the first book of Samuel. It is singular how my faith is justified!"
The chief warder placed his spectacles upon his nose, where they seemed uneasy, and made quite a business of signing. And such was Warder Slater's agitation, that he could scarcely sign at all. But at last the "testimonial" was complete. The prisoner smiled as he carefully folded it in two.
"I will convey it to Colonel Gregory," he said. "It is a gratification to me to have been able to retrieve my character in so short a space of time."
They watched him--a little spellbound, perhaps; and as they watched him, even before their eyes--behold, he was gone!
"Mrs. And Miss Danvers."
Mr. Herbert Buxton, standing at the office window of the hotel, glancing at the visitors' book on the desk at his right, saw the names among the latest arrivals. They caught his eye. "Pontresina" was stated to be the place from which they had lately come.
"It istheDanvers, for a fiver--Cecil's Danvers."
Strolling from the office window, he took a letter--a frayed letter--from his pocket-book. It was post-marked "Pontresina." The signature was "Cecil Buxton"--it was from his brother.
"Dear Hubert," it ran, "you really must get something to do! Your request for what you call an advance is absurd. So far from advancing you anything I shall have to cut short the allowance I have been making you. I have met here a Mrs. and Miss Danvers. I have asked Miss Danvers to do me the honour to marry me. She has consented. When that event comes to pass--which will be very shortly--your allowance will recede to a vanishing point. That you will get something to do is, therefore, the advice of your affectionate brother, Cecil Buxton."
"It would be an odd coincidence," reflected Hubert, "if that Miss Danvers is this Miss Danvers."
An idea occurred to his fertile--too fertile--brain. As the first glimmerings of the idea burst on him, Hubert smiled.
In giving birth to Cecil and Hubert Buxton, Nature had been indulging in one of her freaks. They were twins--born within a few seconds of each other. Cecil came first. Hubert came, with all possible expedition, immediately after. Babies are proverbially alike. These babies were so much alike that, when they were undressed, no one ever pretended to be able to tell one from the other. The resemblance outlived babyhood. As the years went on, Cecil was always being taken for Hubert, Hubert for Cecil. The unfortunate part of the business was that the resemblance was merely superficial. Inside, they were altogether different. Cecil was solid and steady, while Hubert--well, at that particular moment he was quartered at that fashionable Bournemouth hotel, without money in his pocket with which to pay his hotel bill, and with nobody within reach from whom he could borrow a five-pound note.
"If," he told himself, "thisDanvers is that Danvers, I might make something out of that fatal likeness after all."
It would not be, by any means, the first time he had made something out of the "fatal likeness," but on that, in this place, we need not dwell. He strolled along the corridor, the open letter in his hand, biting his nails and thinking over things as he went. As he approached the glass door which led into the grounds, it opened to admit a lady. At sight of him she stopped.
"Cecil!" she exclaimed.
Hubert looked at her. She was a magnificent woman, planned altogether on a magnificent scale, with a profusion of red-gold hair, and a pair of the biggest and brightest eyes Hubert, with all his wide experience, ever remembered to have seen.
"Itisthe Danvers!" he inwardly decided. "What a 'oner'!"
But he was equal to the occasion. He generally was--more than equal. He held out his hand to her with a little sudden burst.
"You!" he cried.
The lady, however, did not immediately respond to his advances. On the contrary, she put her hands behind her back.
"This is an unexpected pleasure. I didn't expect to see you here. I thought you were in Paris."
As a matter of fact according to the most recent advices, Cecil was in Paris. But, of course, Hubert had nothing to do with that.
"I only arrived last night. You--you don't seem glad to see me?"
"It is rather I who should ask the question. Are you glad to see me?"
There was a dryness in her tone which grated on Hubert's ears.
"This is a case in which diplomacy is required. I wonder what there's been between them." Aloud he remarked, "Can you not forget and forgive?"
"Cecil, do you mean it?" She glanced behind her as if in sudden agitation. "I cannot stop now. Meet me in the garden after dinner."
She was gone before he even had a ghost of a chance of feeling his way.
"Cecil! Where are you? Here?"
Hubert, who had been leaning against the wall, came out into the moonlight. The lady stood on the top of the steps. The moon shone full upon her. It lit up the glory of her red-gold hair. She was clad in full evening dress. Her little opera cloak, which had slipped off her shoulders, revealed, rather than concealed, her magnificent proportions. Hubert, eying her critically from below, told himself that she was certainly a "oner!"
"I am afraid I am late. I hope you haven't been waiting long."
"Nothing to speak of. Just time enough to enjoy a cigar--and to dream of you."
"Cecil! For shame! Is it damp? I have only my thin shoes on."
She held one out in evidence. Hubert liked the look of it.
"It is as dry as tinder; just the night for lovers."
"I really think it is." She came down the steps. "How glorious!" Laying her hand upon his arm, she looked into his eyes with her big ones. "As you say, it is just the night for lovers."
They began to stroll. She spoke--
"It seems strange, after all that has passed between us, that you and I should be walking here together."
"It does seem strange." It certainly did.
"After all the hard things you have thought and said of me." There was a pause. She looked down, speaking softly. "Call me by my pet name."
He slightly started. But he was not the sort of man to remain long at a loss. As he turned to her and answered, in his voice there was a ring of passionate intensity.
"Tell me by what name to call you!"
"Call me Angel."
"Angel! My angel of love! My angel of all good things!"
"Cecil!"
Their lips met in a kiss. As they did so, he told himself that if she was Cecil's idea of an angel, she wasn't his. But she was certainly a "oner." He wondered if she had been christened "Angel" Danvers. What a weapon with which to chastise a wife!
"Cecil, let us understand each other. You are not trifling with me again?"
"Need you ask?" This time he was fairly startled. "I am afraid that after all which has passed between us, I need----"
"You do mean to make me your wife?"
"Make you my wife? Good heavens! What do you suppose I mean?"
"Then you do not believe I cheated?"
"Cheated!"
"Then you do not believe that man? You don't believe the lies they said of me?"
"Never for one single instant."
His outspoken denial seemed to take her aback.
"Then, if you didn't believe it, why--but never mind! Cecil, it would be useless to pretend to you that I have been the best of women, but I swear that I will be a good wife to you until I die."
"My own," he murmured. To himself he said, "There seems to have been a good deal more romance about this little affair of Cecil's than I supposed."
Her manner changed.
"Let us talk of something else! Let us talk of you. Tell me of yourself, my love!"
"Well," said Hubert, the ever-ready, "for the moment I am in rather an awkward predicament."
"What is it?"
"The fact is"--he looked her straight in the face, and never turned a hair--"my remittances seem to have all gone wrong. I am landed here with empty pockets."
She laughed. "Let me be your banker, will you?"
"With pleasure."
"I'm quite rich, for me. I've got a heap of money in my purse, if I can only find it." She found it, after long seeking. "How much would you like--twenty pounds?"
"Thank you."
"Should I make it thirty?"
"If you could make it thirty."
Some bank-notes changed hands. He thrust them into his waistcoat-pocket, telling himself that that was something on account at any rate.
"Now, your remittances must make haste and come. Thirty pounds is nothing to you; it is a deal to me. NowIam destitute."
She held out her purse for him to see. It still contained a couple of bank-notes and some gold.
"I suppose you couldn't manage to spare the rest?" he said.
"You greedy thing! I can scarcely believe you are the Cecil Buxton I used to know--he would never have condescended to borrow thirty pounds from me. Do you know, it isn't only that you are nicer, but, somehow, even your manner and your voice seem different."
"Do you think so?" They were standing under the shadow of a tree. He leaned back against the tree. "By the way, I have been remiss. I ought to have inquired after your mother."
"My mother?" She started.
"I see your names are bracketed in the visitors' book together."
"Our names bracketed in the visitors book together! You are dreaming!"
"I saw them there--Mrs. and Miss Danvers."
"Mrs. and Miss Danvers! Cecil! what do you mean?"
It was his turn to stare. Her manner had all at once become quite singular.
"What doyoumean? Isn't your mother with you?"
"Cecil, are you making fun of me?"
Hubert felt that, in some way, he was putting his foot in it--though he did not quite see how.
"Nothing is further from my thoughts than to make fun of you. But when I saw Mrs. Danvers' name in the visitors' book----"
"Whose name?"
"When I saw Mrs. and Miss Danvers there as large as life----"
The lady moved a step away from him. All at once she became, as it were, a different woman entirely.
"I see that you are the same man after all. The same Mr. Cecil Buxton. The same cold, calculating, sneering cynic. Only you happen to have broken out in another place. I presume you have been having a little amusement at my expense on a novel plan of your own. But this time, my friend, you have gone too far. You have asked me, in so many words, to be your wife--I dare you to deny it! You have borrowed money--I dare you to deny that too! I am not so unprotected as you may possibly imagine. I took the precaution to wire this morning for a friend. You will marry me, or we shall see!"
The lady swept him a splendid curtsey, and--walked off. He was so taken aback by the sudden change in her deportment that he made not the slightest attempt to arrest her progress. He stared after her, in the moonlight, open-eyed and open-mouthed.
"Well----! I've done something, though I don't know what. And I've done it somehow, though I don't know how. Cecil ought to be grateful to me for ridding him of her. They'd never have been happy together, I'll stake my life on it. Hallo! Who's this? More adventures!"
There was a rustling behind him. He turned. Someone came out of the shadow of the tree. It was a young girl. She was clad in a plain black silk dinner dress. A shawl was thrown over her shoulders. He could see that she had brown hair and pleasant features. She addressed to him a question which surprised him.
"Who is that woman?" she asked.
She pointed after the rapidly retreating "Angel" with a gesture which was almost tragic. He raised his hat.
"I beg your pardon? I don't think I have the pleasure----"
She paid no attention to his words.
"Who is that woman?" she repeated.
"Which woman?"
"That woman?"
"Really I--I think there's some mistake----"
To his amazement she burst into a passion of tears. "Cecil, don't speak to me like that--don't! don't! don't!"
Hubert stared. The young lady dropped her hands from before her face. She looked at him with streaming eyes.
"Who is that woman? Tell me! I've been longing for your coming, thinking of all that I should say to you, wishing that the minutes were but seconds--and you've been here all the time! You must have come hours before you told me that your train was due. What is the meaning of it all?"
"That is precisely what I should like to know."
"I came out here that I might be alone before our meeting. I heard the sound of voices, and I thought that one of them was yours--I could not believe it. I listened. I heard you talking to that woman. I saw her kiss you. Oh, Cecil! Cecil! my heart is broken!"
She tottered forward, all but falling into Hubert's arms. He tried to soothe her.Sotto vocehe told himself that Cecil had more romance in his nature than he had given him credit for. His complications in the feminine line appeared to be worthy of the farces at the Palais Royal. In the midst of her emotion, the young lady in his arms continued to address him.
"Why--did you--tell me--you were coming--by one train--when--all the time--you must have meant--to come by another. I--have your letter here----"
From the bosom of her dress she drew an envelope. Hubert made a dash at it.
"My letter? Permit me for an instant!"
With scant ceremony he took it from her hand. He glanced at the address--recognising Cecil's well-known writing.
"Miss--Miss Danvers! Are you--areyou--Miss Danvers?"
The girl shrank from him. Her tears were dried. Her face grew white. "Cecil!" she exclaimed.
"Forgive me if my question seems a curious one, but--areyou Miss Danvers?"
The girl shrank away still more. Her face grew whiter. She spoke so faintly her words were scarcely audible.
"Cecil! Give me back my letter, if you please!"
He handed her back her envelope. "Miss Danvers, I entreat you----"
But the look of scorn which was on her face brought even Hubert to a standstill. As he hesitated, she "fixed him with her eyes." He had seldom felt so uncomfortable as he did just then. He seemed to feel himself growing smaller simply because of the scorn which was in her glance.
"Good evening,MisterBuxton."
She slightly inclined her head--and was gone. Hubert stared after her dumfounded. When he did recover the faculty of speech he hardly knew what use to make of it.
"Well--I've done it! Ifshe'sMiss Danvers--whois 'Angel?' Cecil will thank me for the treat which I'm preparing for him. I knew this fatal likeness would dog me to the grave. Why was I born a twin?"
He strolled slowly toward the building. As he entered the hall a lady was coming along the corridor. At sight of him she quickened her pace. She advanced to him with outstretched hands. She was a lady of perhaps forty years of age.
"Cecil!" she cried.
But Hubert was not to be caught with salt. He had had enough, for the present, of Cecil and--of Cecil's feminine friends. Ignoring her outstretched hands, he slightly raised his hat.
"Pardon me, you have the advantage of me, Madame."
The lady seemed bewildered. She stared at him as if she could not believe her eyes and ears. The door through which Hubert had just entered from the grounds was re-opened at his back. A figure glided past him. It was the young girl from whom he had just parted--in not too cordial a manner. She went straight to the lady, slipping her arm through hers.
"Mamma, Mr. Buxton has declined to acknowledge my acquaintance as he declined to acknowledge yours. I think I can give you a sufficient reason for his doing so, if you will come with me, dear mother."
"Hetty!" murmured the elder woman, still plainly at a loss.
"Come!" said the girl. They went, leaving Hubert to stare.
"Well--I've gone one better! That's Mrs. Danvers, I presume. So I've contrived to insult the mother and the daughter too. Cecil will shower blessings on my head. Whocanthat Angel be?"
As he was about to follow the ladies along the corridor, someone touched him on the arm. Turning, he saw that a stranger in a black frock coat stood at his side.
"What were you saying to those ladies?" this person asked.
"What the deuce is that to do with you? And who the devil are you?"
"It has this to do with me, that I am the manager of this hotel, and that it is sufficiently obvious that your presence is objectionable to those ladies. Moreover, under existing circumstances, it is objectionable to me. It is a rule of this hotel that accounts are paid weekly. You have been here more than three weeks, and your first week's bill is yet unpaid. You have made sundry promises, but you have not kept them. I don't wish to have any unpleasantness with you, sir, but I regret that I am unable to accommodate you with a bed, in this hotel, to-night."
Hubert felt a trifle wild. He was capable of that feeling now and then. As they were advancing in one direction, two gentlemen, a tall and a short one, were advancing towards them in the other. They were coming to close quarters. Hubert was conscious that the manager's outspoken observations could not be altogether inaudible to the approaching strangers. So he rode as high a horse as he conveniently could.
"As for your bill, I will see it hanged first. As for your insolence, I will report it to your employers. As for myself, I shall only be too glad to go at once."
One of the approaching strangers--the tall one--suddenly standing still, placed himself in front of Hubert in such a way as to bar his progress. With the finger tips of his right hand he tapped him lightly on the chest.
"Not just at once, dear Buxton, not just at once. Not before you have said a few words to me."
"And to me," said the short man, who stood beside his taller companion. Hubert looked from one to the other.
"And pray who may you be?" he inquired.
"You do not know me?" asked the big stranger.
"Nor me?" echoed the little one.
"But it does not matter. Perhaps you have a bad memory, my dear Buxton."
The big man's manner was affable. He turned to the manager. "You must excuse us for one moment, we have just a word to say to our friend Buxton. Here is our little private sitting-room most convenient--just a word."
Before Hubert had altogether realised the situation, the big man had thrust his arm through his, and drawn him into a sitting-room which opened off the corridor from the left. When they were in, the big man locked the door--he not only locked the door, but in an ostentatious manner he pocketed the key.
"So, Mr. Buxton, you don't know me?"
"Nor me?"
The larger stranger stood against the door. The lesser one, who appeared to be acting as echo, leaned against a table. He began, with a slightly overacted air of carelessness, to roll a cigarette. There was something about this little man which Hubert did not like at all. He was a short, wiry individual, with long, straight black hair, hollow, sallow, shaven cheeks, high projecting cheek-bones, and a pair of small black eyes, which he had a trick of screwing up until only the pupils could be seen. His personal attractions were not enhanced by a huge mole which occupied a conspicuous place in the middle of his left cheek. But if he liked the appearance of the small man little, it was not because he liked the appearance of the tall man more. This was a great hulking fellow, with sandy whiskers and moustache, and a manner which, in spite of its greasy insinuation, Hubert felt was distinctly threatening.
"Is it really possible, Mr. Buxton, that I have had the misfortune to escape your memory?"
"And me?"
Hubert glanced from one to the other. That the little man was a foreigner, probably an Italian, he made up his mind at once. As to the nationality of the big man he was not so sure. He had had dealings with some strange people in his time, both at home and abroad. But he could not recollect encountering either of these gentlemen before.
"I do not remember having ever seen either of you."
"Oh, you do not remember?" The big man came a step nearer. "You do not remember that pleasant evening in that little room at Nice?"
"You do not remember slapping my face?" quickly exclaimed the little man, suddenly slapping his own right cheek with startling vigour.
"You do not remember accusing me of cheating you at cards?"
"You do not remember placing an insult on me! on me! on me?"
All at once, abandoning the process of manufacturing his cigarette, the little man came and placed himself in even uncomfortable proximity to Hubert's person. "My friend, my cheek is burning to this very hour."
Hubert did not like the look of things at all. He wassurehe had never seen these men before.
"I understand the position exactly. You are doing what people constantly are doing--you are mistaking me for my brother."
"Mistaking you for your brother? I am mistaking you for your brother?"
"And me!" cried the little man, again saluting his own cheek smartly. "You liar!"
The big man's manner was insulting. Hubert felt he must resent it.
"How dare you----"
But the sentiment died down into his boots as the big man came at him with a sudden ferocity which seemed to cause the beating of his heart to cease.
"How dare I! You dare to speak a word to me. Liar! I will kill you where you stand."
"As for me," remarked the short man, affably, "I have this, and this." From one recess in his clothing he took a revolver. From another, a long, glittering, and business-like, if elegant, knife.
"All these years I have not been able to make up my mind if I will shoot you like a dog, or stick you like a pig--which you are."
"Gentlemen," explained Hubert, with surprising mildness, "I assure you you are under a misapprehension. The likeness between my brother and myself is so striking that our most intimate friends mistake one for the other."
"For whom, then, did my sister mistake you this morning and to-night?"
A light flashed upon Hubert's brain. "You mean Angel?"
"You call her Angel! He calls her Angel!"
"I hear," observed the little man.
"If you will allow me to explain!"
The big man made a gesture of refusal. But the little man caught him by the arm. "Let the liar speak," he said.
The big man, acting on his friend's advice, let the--that is, he let Hubert speak. Availing himself of the courteously offered permission, Hubert did his best to make things clear.
"I am not--as I would have told you before if you would have let me--I am not Cecil, but Hubert Buxton." The big man made another gesture. Again the little man restrained him. "We are twins. All our lives it has been difficult to tell one from the other. Of recent years, I understand, the resemblance between us has grown even greater. But the likeness is only skin deep. Cecil is the elder by, I believe, about thirty seconds. He is a rich man, and I am a poor man--bitterly poor."
The big man spoke. "And you dare to tell me that you have been making love to my sister under a false name? Very good, I have killed a man for less. But I will not kill you--not yet----Is your handwriting as much like your brother's as you are?"
"My fist is like Cecil's."
"So! Sit down." Hubert sat down. "Take that pen." He took the pen. He dipped it in the ink. "Write, 'I promise to marry----'"
"What's the good of my promising to marry anyone? Don't I tell you that I'm without a sou with which to bless myself?"
"Write, my friend, what I dictate. 'I promise to marry----'" Hubert wrote it--"'Marian Philipson Peters----'"
"And who the----something is Marian Philipson Peters?"
"Marian Philipson Peters--Mrs. Philipson Peters, is my sister."
It seemed to be a tolerably prosaic paraphrase of "Angel." Hubert, if the expression of his features could be trusted, appeared to think so.
"And what possible advantage does your sister propose to derive from my promising, either in black and white or in any other way, to marry her? Does the lady propose to pay my debts, or to provide me with an income?"
"Attend to me, my friend--write what I dictate." The big man laid his hand on Hubert's shoulder with an amount of pressure which might mean much--or more! Hubert looked up. The pressure increased. "Write it."
The little man was standing on the other side of the unwilling scribe. He had his revolver in one hand, his knife in the other. "Write it!" he said.
Up went Hubert's shoulders--he wrote it. The big man continued his dictation.
"'Within three months after date.'"
"What on earth----"
"Write--'Within three months after date.'"
"Oh, I'll write anything. I'll promise to marry her within three minutes--to oblige you."
The big man examined what Hubert had written.
"Very like!--very like indeed. So like Cecil Buxton's handwriting that I plainly perceive, my friend, that you are the prince of all the liars. Now sign it." He arrested Hubert's hand. "Sign it--'Cecil Buxton.'"
Hubert glanced up. He dropped his pen. "Now I see!"
"Pick up that pen."
"With pleasure." He picked it up.
"Sign it--'Cecil Buxton."'
The big man spoke in a tone of voice which could not, truthfully, be described as friendly.
"In other words--commit forgery."
The tall man turned to the short one.
"Eugene, who is to use your revolver? Is it you or I? I swear to you that if this scoundrel, this contemptible villain, does not make all the reparation to my sister that is in his miserable power, I will blow his brains out as he is sitting here."
The short man smiled--not pleasantly.
"Leave to me, my friend, that sacred duty--the sacred duty of being executioner. I have long had a little grudge of my own against Mr. Cecil Buxton. I have one of those little insults to wipe out which can only be wiped out by--blood. I have not doubted all the time that this is Mr. Cecil Buxton. I doubt it still less now that I have seen him write."
"I swear to you----"
The big man cut Hubert uncivilly short. He repeated his command. "Sign it--'Cecil Buxton.'"
Hubert looked from one face to the other. He was conscious--painfully conscious!--that his was not a pleasant situation. He saw murder on the short man's face. He did not like the look of his revolver. He held it far too carelessly. That he was the sort of man who would entertain no kind of conscientious scruple against shooting him, to use his own words, like a dog, he felt quite certain.
"Let me say one word?" he pleaded.
The big man refused him even that grace. "Not one!"
While Hubert hesitated, the pen between his fingers, there came a rapping at the door.