THE UNFORTUNATE RESULT OF BEING A TWIN.
"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 was _sure_ he 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.