“Voules is all right,” I said. “Decent Voules! Voules wouldn’t give us
away, would you, Voules?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You would?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But, Voules, old man,” I said, “be sensible. What would you gain by
it?”
“Financially, sir, nothing.”
“Whereas, by keeping quiet”—I tapped him on the chest—“by holding your
tongue, Voules, by saying nothing about it to anybody, Voules, old
fellow, you might gain a considerable sum.”
“Am I to understand, sir, that, because you are rich and I am poor, you
think that you can buy my self-respect?”
“Oh, come!” I said.
“How much?” said Voules.
So we switched to terms. You wouldn’t believe the way the man haggled.
You’d have thought a decent, faithful servant would have been delighted
to oblige one in a little matter like that for a fiver. But not Voules.
By no means. It was a hundred down, and the promise of another hundred
when we had got safely away, before he was satisfied. But we fixed it
up at last, and poor old George got down to his state-room and changed
his clothes.
He’d hardly gone when the breakfast-party came on deck.
“Did you meet him?” I asked.
“Meet whom?” said old Marshall.
“George’s twin-brother Alfred.”
“I didn’t know George had a brother.”
“Nor did he till yesterday. It’s a long story. He was kidnapped in
infancy, and everyone thought he was dead. George had a letter from his
uncle about him yesterday. I shouldn’t wonder if that’s where George
has gone, to see his uncle and find out about it. In the meantime,
Alfred has arrived. He’s down in George’s state-room now, having a
brush-up. It’ll amaze you, the likeness between them. You’ll think it
_is_ George at first. Look! Here he comes.”
And up came George, brushed and clean, in an ordinary yachting suit.
They were rattled. There was no doubt about that. They stood looking at
him, as if they thought there was a catch somewhere, but weren’t quite
certain where it was. I introduced him, and still they looked doubtful.
“Mr. Pepper tells me my brother is not on board,” said George.
“It’s an amazing likeness,” said old Marshall.
“Is my brother like me?” asked George amiably.
“No one could tell you apart,” I said.
“I suppose twins always are alike,” said George. “But if it ever came
to a question of identification, there would be one way of
distinguishing us. Do you know George well, Mr. Pepper?”
“He’s a dear old pal of mine.”
“You’ve been swimming with him perhaps?”
“Every day last August.”
“Well, then, you would have noticed it if he had had a mole like this
on the back of his neck, wouldn’t you?” He turned his back and stooped
and showed the mole. His collar hid it at ordinary times. I had seen it
often when we were bathing together.
“Has George a mole like that?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “Oh, no.”
“You would have noticed it if he had?”
“Yes,” I said. “Oh, yes.”
“I’m glad of that,” said George. “It would be a nuisance not to be able
to prove one’s own identity.”
That seemed to satisfy them all. They couldn’t get away from it. It
seemed to me that from now on the thing was a walk-over. And I think
George felt the same, for, when old Marshall asked him if he had had
breakfast, he said he had not, went below, and pitched in as if he
hadn’t a care in the world.
Everything went right till lunch-time. George sat in the shade on the
fore-deck talking to Stella most of the time. When the gong went and the
rest had started to go below, he drew me back. He was beaming.
“It’s all right,” he said. “What did I tell you?”
“What did you tell me?”
“Why, about Stella. Didn’t I say that Alfred would fix things for
George? I told her she looked worried, and got her to tell me what the
trouble was. And then——”
“You must have shown a flash of speed if you got her to confide in you
after knowing you for about two hours.”
“Perhaps I did,” said George modestly, “I had no notion, till I became
him, what a persuasive sort of chap my brother Alfred was. Anyway, she
told me all about it, and I started in to show her that George was a
pretty good sort of fellow on the whole, who oughtn’t to be turned down
for what was evidently merely temporary insanity. She saw my point.”
“And it’s all right?”
“Absolutely, if only we can produce George. How much longer does that
infernal sleuth intend to stay here? He seems to have taken root.”
“I fancy he thinks that you’re bound to come back sooner or later, and
is waiting for you.”
“He’s an absolute nuisance,” said George.
We were moving towards the companion way, to go below for lunch, when a
boat hailed us. We went to the side and looked over.
“It’s my uncle,” said George.
A stout man came up the gangway.
“Halloa, George!” he said. “Get my letter?”
“I think you are mistaking me for my brother,” said George. “My name is
Alfred Lattaker.”
“What’s that?”
“I am George’s brother Alfred. Are you my Uncle Augustus?”
The stout man stared at him.
“You’re very like George,” he said.
“So everyone tells me.”
“And you’re really Alfred?”
“I am.”
“I’d like to talk business with you for a moment.”
He cocked his eye at me. I sidled off and went below.
At the foot of the companion-steps I met Voules.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Voules. “If it would be convenient I
should be glad to have the afternoon off.”
I’m bound to say I rather liked his manner. Absolutely normal. Not a
trace of the fellow-conspirator about it. I gave him the afternoon off.
I had lunch—George didn’t show up—and as I was going out I was waylaid
by the girl Pilbeam. She had been crying.
“I beg your pardon, sir, but did Mr. Voules ask you for the afternoon?”
I didn’t see what business if was of hers, but she seemed all worked up
about it, so I told her.
“Yes, I have given him the afternoon off.”
She broke down—absolutely collapsed. Devilish unpleasant it was. I’m
hopeless in a situation like this. After I’d said, “There, there!”
which didn’t seem to help much, I hadn’t any remarks to make.
“He s-said he was going to the tables to gamble away all his savings
and then shoot himself, because he had nothing left to live for.”
I suddenly remembered the scrap in the small hours outside my
state-room door. I hate mysteries. I meant to get to the bottom of
this. I couldn’t have a really first-class valet like Voules going
about the place shooting himself up. Evidently the girl Pilbeam was at
the bottom of the thing. I questioned her. She sobbed.
I questioned her more. I was firm. And eventually she yielded up the
facts. Voules had seen George kiss her the night before; that was the
trouble.
Things began to piece themselves together. I went up to interview
George. There was going to be another job for persuasive Alfred.
Voules’s mind had got to be eased as Stella’s had been. I couldn’t
afford to lose a fellow with his genius for preserving a
trouser-crease.
I found George on the fore-deck. What is it Shakespeare or somebody says
about some fellow’s face being sicklied o’er with the pale cast of
care? George’s was like that. He looked green.
“Finished with your uncle?” I said.
He grinned a ghostly grin.
“There isn’t any uncle,” he said. “There isn’t any Alfred. And there
isn’t any money.”
“Explain yourself, old top,” I said.
“It won’t take long. The old crook has spent every penny of the trust
money. He’s been at it for years, ever since I was a kid. When the time
came to cough up, and I was due to see that he did it, he went to the
tables in the hope of a run of luck, and lost the last remnant of the
stuff. He had to find a way of holding me for a while and postponing
the squaring of accounts while he got away, and he invented this
twin-brother business. He knew I should find out sooner or later, but
meanwhile he would be able to get off to South America, which he has
done. He’s on his way now.”
“You let him go?”
“What could I do? I can’t afford to make a fuss with that man Sturgis
around. I can’t prove there’s no Alfred when my only chance of avoiding
prison is to be Alfred.”
“Well, you’ve made things right for yourself with Stella Vanderley,
anyway,” I said, to cheer him up.
“What’s the good of that now? I’ve hardly any money and no prospects.
How can I marry her?”