CHAPTER XX

THE OPENING OF THE COFFIN

Shall I ever forget the day which followed?--the greatest in all my

life! I'll have to be very old first, and far gone in my dotage. When

I woke up in the morning I couldn't think where I was. I hadn't slept

out of Little Olive Street, since James took me there after we were

married, I don't think half-a-dozen times. And never in such a room as

I was in then; nor yet in one anywhere like it.

When it all came back to me somehow I felt happier than I'd done for I

don't know how long. I'd had a good night's sleep; not a worry on my

mind. I could have sung as I lay in bed; yes, and laughed. There were

the children; Jimmy on one side, and Pollie on the other. They'd

wanted to make up a separate bed for them, but I wouldn't hear of it;

and when that grand lady, who it seemed was the housekeeper, put on

airs, as if they were her children, I let her see--and I felt sure

that, before very long, their father'd be beside me too.

I wasn't a bit afraid. With the night even the last shadow of a doubt

had gone. Whatever or whoever was in that mausoleum place they talked

about, and which we should soon be going to see, I knew it wasn't

James there. There might be trouble in it for some one, but I was sure

it wasn't for me.

We had breakfast with the family--oh dear! it was a meal. There was

the young gentleman and Miss Desmond and the children and me. I was on

pins and needles all the time lest the children should do something

they didn't ought. They weren't used to eating in company; and

everything was that grand I was in a muddle enough myself without

having to think of them. The servants--the serving-men that is--they

were the worst. The children couldn't eat their breakfast for staring

at them. They asked all sorts of questions--about their white

stockings, and their white hair and I don't know what. The young

gentleman seemed to think it was a joke. But Miss Desmond could see I

wasn't comfortable; so she sent the men out of the room, and then we

had a little peace.

It was a lovely morning when we started to drive to the station, Miss

Desmond, the young gentleman, and me; in a beautiful carriage, with

such a pair of horses! I'd have liked to have stroked them, only I

didn't dare. I hadn't touched a horse since I was at home at the farm.

There was a special whole carriage engaged for us in the train; and

waiting for us on the platform was Sir Gregory Hancock, and Dr.

Clinton, and, of course, Mr. FitzHoward. He was the most important

person of us all. I don't know if he was supposed to be managing

everything, but he might just as well have been. He was dressed in

black from head to foot, with a band of crape right up to the top of

his hat, and another round his arm. He did make me so angry. Just as

though any one was dead who had to do with him--or me either. As if I

didn't know my James was alive. I was dressed as I always am. When he

saw it he looked at me as if I'd done something improper. About some

things he has no sense.

Just as the train was going to start up came Mr. Howarth, and, with

him, Lady Violet. I don't believe either of them was expected. Lady

Violet was pretty stiff. She just gave Miss Desmond an icy kiss on the

cheek, the young gentleman the tips of her fingers, and towards me she

gave a little movement with her head, as if she wished me to

understand that she saw me, and that was all she intended to do. Mr.

Howarth seemed quite ill. He even walked like a sick man; coming along

the platform with uncertain steps, as if he found it difficult to lift

his feet.

We were a strange company, as the train bore us into the country out

of the town. Mr. Howarth's face got on my nerves. That something was

badly wrong with him one couldn't help seeing. I couldn't help looking

his way every now and again, and every time I did my spirits sank a

little lower. Lady Violet sat as straight as a broom handle; with pale

face, shut lips, and gleaming eyes. Scarcely a word would she speak to

any one. The way she treated the young gentleman--considering they

were sweethearts, as Miss Desmond had told me--was queer. These two

had a depressing effect on all of us. And when you put to that the

fact that Mr. FitzHoward had taken it into his head all of a sudden to

behave as if he were a mute at a funeral, and would do nothing except

look straight along the tip of his nose, it will be seen that we

weren't exactly lively. If it hadn't been for the two doctors I doubt

if a dozen words would have been said. Somehow I felt that the whole

affair amused Dr. Clinton; and he and Sir Gregory kept talking

together in whispers nearly the whole of the way.

There were carriages to meet us at the station where we

stopped--though I had begun to think that we never should get there;

and presently we were bowling along through country lanes. After we

had gone some way, perhaps three or four miles, we turned through some

open gates into an avenue of trees. One thing I noticed, that they

were all elms and silver beeches; and that they were planted in turns,

so that when there was an elm on one side there was a beech upon the

other.

It was a great old house we came to. We passed under an arch into a

courtyard, where there was a fountain in the middle. If all this

indeed belonged to my James I couldn't help wondering more and more

why he gave it all up; and, above all, how he ever came to marry the

likes of me. There was a huge fire blazing in the hall, which cheered

it up a bit. It wanted brightening, for it was so large, and the black

oak walls made it seem more than a little grim and sombre.

'We'll first have some lunch,' explained the young gentleman to us, as

we stood all together in the hall; 'and then afterwards we'll drive

over to the mausoleum.'

It wasn't a festive luncheon. Only the doctors and Mr. FitzHoward ate

anything. I'm sure the rest of us would have been just as well without

it; particularly Mr. Howarth, for he did nothing else but drink. In

spite of myself I kept getting more and more into the dumps. The air

of the place and the air of the people, the feeling, too, that

something unpleasant was at hand, began to fill me with a sense of

worry. Mr. Howarth's face and manner, and the way he drank, made it

worse. He must have had two or three bottles of wine to himself; if

not more, tumbler after tumbler. What wine it was I couldn't say. The

fact that nobody else drank anything at all made the fact of his

drinking so much all the more conspicuous. We all sat peering at him

out of the corners of our eyes, wondering what was going to happen.

By the time lunch was over, and we were getting ready to start, I was

all of a fidget. I was still persuaded that there was no bad news in

store for me, but I was equally sure that there was for some one. What

Mr. Howarth feared I couldn't think. I remembered once reading an

account of a man who was hanged; how, as he approached the gallows,

his face seemed to get more and more set, and he moved more and more

like a rickety machine. It all came back to me as I looked at Mr.

Howarth. I wished it wouldn't. In particular I did wish that he'd

manage to put himself somewhere where I couldn't see him. The fear

that was on him began to pass to me. Miss Desmond's face was like a

sheet for whiteness. When she came close to me I saw that she was

shivering, and that there were deep lines about the corners of her

lips and eyes.

As a servant came to tell us all was ready, the young gentleman,

noticing how strange she looked, came towards us with an anxious face.

He himself didn't look as well as he might have done. But he was

resolute and stern rather than white with the terror of what was to

come; as she was.

'Edith, I think that you had better stay behind; and you, too.'

This was to me. But I would have no truck with any such suggestion. I

had no fear of what I was going to see; I knew it wouldn't be my

James. It was because I had no fear that I was resolved to see. Their

eyes I wouldn't trust; not Mr. FitzHoward's, nor Dr. Clinton's, nor

any one's, except my own. If James was dead, and in that coffin, of

which I'd heard so much, then for me there was an end of everything.

But I knew he wasn't, and, let them tell what tales they might, I'd

require the evidence of my own eyes before I believed he was. It was

right and proper that Miss Desmond should stay behind, for that she

was in a piteous plight was plain; and this was a business in which

her concern was as nothing compared to mine, but with me it was a

different tale.

'I shall go. But you--' I turned to her; 'I think that you had better

stay.'

'I can't! I can't!' she said. Then she dropped her voice. 'I daren't!'

The young gentleman's face grew darker.

'I shall have to forbid you. You are not well; there is no reason why

you should come; rather there is why you shouldn't; and you must

excuse my saying, Edith, that we want no scenes.'

'Don't--don't forbid me.' She put her hand on his arm. 'I promise you

shall have no scene.'

She went; she and I alone together in a carriage. It turned out that

the mausoleum wasn't very far away; half a mile, perhaps, or

three-quarters; but she never would have walked it. All the way she

sat holding my hand, sometimes squeezing it so tight that she hurt.

And such a look upon her face! Just before we stopped she spoke; I

expect because she couldn't keep still any longer.

'What do you think he's afraid of?'

The question took me aback; because I had been wondering myself, and

the more I wondered the less I could think.

'I don't know. But if I were you I wouldn't trouble, whatever it is.'

'You wouldn't trouble? And he's my man?'

I knew she was hinting at what I'd said about James. When she spoke

like that I'd nothing else to say.

I never saw anything like that mausoleum. It was like a little church

built of granite. We went through a door into a sort of tiny room. The

two doctors met us. Sir Gregory spoke.

'Everything is ready. Now, my dear ladies, this young lady'--meaning

me--'is the only one of you for whose presence there is the slightest

necessity. Lady Violet, and you, Miss Desmond, if you take my urgent

advice, will remain here till she returns.'

He spoke in a way which showed that he meant that his advice should be

attended to; I dare say the young gentleman had been saying a word or

two upon the road. Anyhow they did as he wished. They stayed behind,

and I went with him and Dr. Clinton into a kind of room which was

beyond. It was a dome-shaped place. The walls and floor were of bare

granite. The only light came through some small painted windows which

were high above the ground. There were narrow holes in the walls here

and there to let the air come through. All round the place were

shelves; on some of the shelves were coffins. One of them, which had

been taken, I expect, from where it had stood upon a shelf, was raised

above the ground on a black pall in the centre of the floor. Four men,

who looked like mechanics, stood one at either corner, each with a

screw-driver in his hand.

'This is my brother's coffin' said the young gentleman. 'As I have

already informed you, I thought it better that it should not be

touched except in our presence. I need not remark that it has not been

opened since it came.'

'How do we know? How do we know?'

This was Mr. Howarth.

'You do know,' was all the young gentleman replied. He nodded to the

four men. They began to remove the screws.

The young gentleman had made me take his arm. I was glad of it before

they'd got those screws all out. I don't know how many there were, but

I thought they never would come to the end of them. No one spoke a

word. I don't believe I ever breathed. I know I had to lean upon the

young gentleman's arm to help me to stand. When they made ready to

remove the lid I gave a start.

'Not yet,' he whispered. 'There's a shell within.'

I'd forgotten that the gentry are buried in two coffins, and sometimes

three. When my turn comes I know that one will be enough. I shouldn't

like to be fastened up in all that quantity of wood. Sure enough, when

the lid was taken off, there was another one beneath. There was

another weary lot of screws, though I don't think quite so many as

before. Then one of the men said,

'That's the last.'

We all drew closer. The young gentleman spoke, his voice seeming

strange.

'Remove the lid.'

The four men lifted it. Then all was still. I think that each was

reluctant to be the first to see what might be seen. Mr. Howarth,

indeed, drew back. I felt that the arm on which I leaned was

trembling. That made me tremble too. The two doctors advanced

together. They leaned over the open coffin. Sir Gregory spoke first.

'That is the Marquis of Twickenham.'

Then Dr. Clinton:

'Then the Marquis of Twickenham and Mr. Montagu Babbacombe were one;

for that certainly is Mr. Babbacombe.'

When he said that, if it had not been for the young gentleman I

believe I should have fallen. I could neither move nor speak. Mr.

FitzHoward joined them.

'That's Babbacombe right enough; but he looks as if he were alive.'

'Alive? Alive?' gasped Mr. Howarth. 'Pray God--that he is alive.'

'He certainly is in a wonderful state of preservation,' murmured Dr.

Gregory. 'Altogether beyond anything I expected to find.'

My strength returning, I tried to go forward. But the young gentleman

stopped me.

'Be careful! Haven't you heard enough?'

'I want to see! I want to see!'

I went and saw.

I saw something lying in a coffin; something so like my James that it

wasn't strange they should think that it was he. But I was his wife;

and I saw with different eyes; so that I knew better in an instant.

'That's not my James! That's not my James! Why--I don't

believe--that--it's a man at all.'

Dr. Clinton, putting out his hand, touched the face which lay there

staring up at us.

'She's right. It's some sort of a dummy.'

There was a curious cry, like none I'd heard before, and the sound of

a heavy body falling. It was Mr. Howarth tumbling to the ground. Miss

Desmond, hastening in, knelt on the floor at his side.

BOOK III.--THE GENTLEMAN WITH NINE LIVES

THE ADVENTURES OF A GENTLEMAN IN SEARCH OF

FORTUNE, AS TOLD BY HIMSELF

CHAPTER XXI

A PEER IN EMBRYO

Extraordinary how small the world Is. A remark which is not original.

Thus making the fact still more conspicuous. For a thing must be very

obvious to force itself on the attention of the ordinary ass.

Who would have thought that a lying scamp was telling the truth when I

supposed him to be more than usually engaged in its perversion?

It was at a certain house of call in San Francisco that I first met

him--M'Croskay's, where they knew a thing or two. There was a man

standing before the fire when I went in. When he saw me he said,

'Hollo! You're me!' That was the first time I heard him speak the

truth, and, until the other day, I believed it was the last. It was a

fact. I was him; his _alter ego_; his brother Dromio. The joke was, he

was a blackguard too. At a sale we might have been exploited as an

interchangeable lot; and a bitter bargain. If there was anything he'd

stick at, I never found it. He was as mad as I was. And as great a

liar. There was only one point on which we differed; and that was

tongue. How that man could talk! A hundred and twenty thousand words

to my one.

It was convenient, at times--that conversational gift of his. For he'd

contradict himself so often in the course of half-an-hour that you'd

begin to wonder if the truth hadn't slipped into the mess by accident.

It seems it actually did. Though it took me ten years to discover just

where.

He was fond of telling us who he was. But it seemed that he was so

many people that one got to feel that it didn't matter over-much which

particular one of them he might happen to be. One night when we'd been

having a little euchre, and he'd had a bottle or so of Bourbon, and

lost, and wanted to play on the nod, and we wouldn't have it, he

started clearing his mind of what he thought of us. And he told us he

was an English nobleman; one of the greatest English noblemen; and

that his yearly income was in the neighbourhood of a million dollars.

As he'd been a Russian banker a little earlier in the evening, and an

Australian squatter a bit ahead of that, and two or three other things

besides, we didn't think his tale was good enough to play for owings

on. If I'd taken interest enough in what he said I'd have asked him

what nobleman he was. Then I might have been in front of Mr. Smith.

Four years afterwards--six years ago--I married. It was all done in a

week. So quick that I haven't got used to it yet. When I remember I'm

married I brace myself, and a sort of shudder of wonder goes right

through my bones. One promise I made to myself when I stood with her

before the registrar--and to myself I always keep my word. That I'd

keep her out of the mud in which I live, and move, and have my being.

Whenever I've gone home to her I've left everything that wasn't clean

outside. So that to this hour she's as simple as on the day on which I

married her; and that's saying something; and she hasn't found me out.

It's the queerest thing in the world to know that there's some one

thinks you're good.

This encounter with Mr. John Smith is likely to cause a complication.

As my life was already such an intricate piece of machinery, it didn't

seem as if there was room for many more complications. But when he

would have it that I was the Marquis of Twickenham, my thoughts flew

back to that master of lies who was so like me, and who would have it

that he was an English nobleman. It was something to wake from a

thirty days' sleep--with occasional intervals for exercise and

refreshment--to find oneself a Marquis. That interview with Mr. Smith

at the York did tickle me. So I was a Marquis; and as a Marquis I was

to die, for his benefit--and a thousand pounds. I'm a fool; we're all

fools; but I'm not the kind of fool who can't see things when they're

shown him. When he began to talk like that, I saw the infinite

possibilities of the position in a flash. I'd had a go at some pretty

big things in my time, but never at anything within a good few miles

of this. The first thing was to die, and then---- Why then, we'd see.

And so probably would Mr. Smith.

I died. I've died before, for money. Same as I've slept for thirty

days. But it's not a pleasing pastime. Not the kind of thing I should

recommend to any gentleman who's looking for some agreeable occupation

with which to fill up his spare time. Especially when you have to

ready yourself for it in two or three hours, as I had then. By the

time you are ready you feel as if it was going to be a case of genuine

death at last. I know I did. Then I had got up the game so thoroughly

that I had to cling on to life by my eyelids.

The show was artistically a success; though, while it lasted, I kept

thinking of the Chinaman from whom I'd learnt the trick. For reasons

of his own--most of them connected with the police--that ingenious

yellow terror was constantly finding it convenient to slip his cable.

Once, as I'd cause for knowing, he slipped it so well that it parted

for ever. As I lay that Monday afternoon, with the various members of

the noble house of Twickenham standing by my bed of suffering, the

memory of that Chinaman came back more clearly than I liked, and I

devoutly hoped that I wasn't going to follow his example. It had been

my original intention to prolong the agony, and to keep on dying for a

day or two. There were a good many little hints I wanted to pick up

from the members of my family. But the agony turned out to be so very

real that the idea of prolonging it didn't appeal to me one little

bit. So we had to part before we'd really met; and I had to postpone,

until after my death, the acquirement of the information I stood so

much in need of.

It was not surprising that the old fossil of a doctor announced that I

was dead; for I had done the thing so extremely well, and was in such

a state of collapse, that I myself wasn't sure I wasn't.

My experiences, on that occasion, by no means terminated with my

decease. It's an odd sensation to be 'laid out' by a lady of a certain

age and peculiar habits. It's a funny thing to be measured for your

coffin. It's a still funnier one to be placed inside it. And it was

when I was placed inside it that one of the not least difficult and

delicate parts of the game began.

I've often thought that there's something to be said for an Irish

wake, besides the pleasing opportunity it gives for the consumption of

Irish whisky. And still more for the custom which obtains of never

leaving a corpse alone until it's underground. From my point of view.

For if they hadn't left me alone I'd have been in a trifling fix. Mr.

Smith's idea was that he should appear upon the scene before the

undertaker's men, that I there and then should come to life, and that

we should screw down the lid upon an empty coffin. But apart from the

fact that I didn't trust Mr. Smith, not half as far as I could see

him, that notion of his was worth just nothing. He hadn't allowed for

the absence of my weight from that elegant chest. They'd have to be a

rummy lot of undertakers' men who couldn't tell, even when they were

dead drunk, an empty coffin from a full one. But as I'd made

arrangements of my own for supplying the deficiency I didn't trouble

to go into details with Mr. Smith. As things turned out, from every

point of view, it was just as well I had.

I took with me to Cortin's Hotel my double. There were only two men in

the world who ever knew of its existence. I'm one; the other's dead.

Real dead; and not for money. He was a Frenchman named Pétion--Edward

Pétion. He was a modeller in wax. He had been attached to a waxworks

museum in Paris; where, I fancy, propriety according to English

notions was not the strongest point. That had been before I made his

acquaintance. At the time I knew him the only thing to which he was

attached was absinthe. The bonds of that attachment were never

relaxed. He was penniless. And though he required no food he did want

drink. With that I provided him on condition that he made my double.

And he did.

It was made on the principle of a lay figure, with flexible limbs;

and in every respect was an exact copy of the great original--so far,

that is, as the means available permitted. The result altogether

exceeded my expectations. It was my weight to an ounce. And when it

was lying down, with its eyes closed, not the keenest observer,

standing at a little distance--unless he had some prior cause of his

own for doubt--would suspect that it wasn't me, especially when the

light was a little bad. In support of that statement I need only

mention that the public--and even my own manager--has stared at it

when it was inside a glass frame without entertaining the faintest

suspicion of the substitution which had taken place. With one accord

they imagined themselves to be looking at me.

This was the double which I had taken with me to Cortin's Hotel. And

when the time came that I judged myself to have had enough of being

cribbed and cabined in that elegant example of the undertaker's art, I

just got out of it, placed the garments in which I was attired on

Myself No. 2, and laid him comfortably to rest in the position I had

recently quitted. That any one would detect the change, without

entering on a closer examination than in such a case was likely, I

knew from experience was in the highest degree improbable.

My intention was, when Mr. Smith did arrive, to come out of my

hiding-place, tell him what I had done, and so render detection

practically impossible. But, as it happened, the fact that the

undertakers' men came first introduced a new factor into the

situation. They made no bones about the matter. Only one fellow

glanced at the corpse, and his one remark was to the effect that 'the

old chap looks pretty fresh.' Without any waste of time they proceeded

to put on the lid. I could not help reflecting, as I viewed the

proceedings, that it was just as well that things weren't what they

seemed.

Just as they had got the last screw home, Mr. Smith did arrive. I was

curious to know what would happen now. Practically nothing happened.

He let them walk off with the coffin, in the full belief that I was

its contents, without moving so much as a finger to save me from the

living death to which he supposed me to be doomed. Beyond doubt his

intention was to murder, and so rid himself of the unfortunate wretch

whom he had incited to conspiracy. I had a queer shivery-shakery

feeling as I thought of the fate I had escaped. I also reflected that,

although he didn't know it, he had put another card into my hand.

Hardly had he left the room, than I followed him down the stairs--not

as my own proper self, but as a bearded individual who they probably

imagined, in the confusion, was one of the guests of the house.

I bought a portmanteau, together with the necessary clothes with which

to fill it, crossed town in a cab, and, as Mr. Leonard, took rooms in

a highly respectable house in Clifford Street, Dalston. There, while

maturing my plan of campaign, I watched the issue of events. I wasn't

going to die and be buried for a mere monkey, as, in course of time,

Mr. Smith would learn. In trying murder he'd given the game away, and

not only so, had destroyed, for ever, his own peace of mind. I knew

the kind of man he was. There are plenty like him. You probably see

one when you look in the glass. To cut some one's throat is the

shortest way out of heaps of holes into which one gets. It is only

what some call conscience, and others blue funk, which stays one's

hand. It wasn't the cutting of the throat which he objected to, but

what came after. He'd be glad enough to have me boarded up, and out of

the way, for ever and a day. But I'd lay odds that there'd come times

when he'd hear me talking to him out of that box; and at those times

he'd not be happy. It's a nasty moment when the man you dropped comes

out of the hole into which you shovelled him to whisper in your ear.

He'd worry a good deal about the man he'd buried alive, being, unless

I erred, of a worrying nature; and then, when he'd had about enough of

worrying, the live man would come unburied; and that, so far as he was

concerned, would be a finisher. The remainder of the proceedings

wouldn't be of much interest to him.

During the next few days I saw in some of the papers that the Marquis

of Twickenham had died. They didn't all of them come out with the news

together. It appeared that there had been something of a private

character about that deathbed. It seemed to me that the family wanted

to hush the matter up. But nowadays when the British Press has got to

make a living out of anything or everything, hushing-up's not easy.

The funeral was quite private. The interment took place in the family

vault at Cressland in the presence of only a few members of the

family. I wondered if Mr. Smith was one of them. After the funeral was

over I bet his thoughts wandered Cressland way oftener than he quite

liked.

Then there was more about it in the society papers.

I fancy the late Marquis wasn't altogether a credit to his family.

There were some funny stories and hints galore. This was a

pity--because it would have been my desire to have figured as a man of

unblemished character. I always have had aspirations towards the

stainless life. Odd how difficult it is to attain to one's ideal.

Every time I've been some one else he's been a scamp. And it really

did look as if this British nobleman was going to turn out to be the

worst egg in the basket.

But there were alleviations. I'm not denying it. They were

alleviations of a good and solid kind. That aristocrat at San

Francisco hadn't been far out when he talked of his million dollars a

year. I made some roundabout inquiries in the proper quarter, and

learned that there were accumulations in the neighbourhood of a

million sterling awaiting the Marquis's going home. That was apart

from the annual income. The property had been carefully nursed, and

those seven figures represented savings only. That's what it is to

have a reasonably honest man of business. I do like honesty in another

man. A million! If I could only get hold of that I wouldn't worry

about the income for a year or two.

This was going to be a bigger thing even than I'd supposed. What kind

of an idiot that San Francisco ruffian could have been was beyond my

fathoming. I've had a few deals with sample idiots, but he was too

much in the wholesale. I took it that he'd cut and run because,

happening to be one of nature's blackguards, he'd done something, or

perhaps two or three somethings, which didn't smell altogether sweet

in the nostrils of the good. If he'd only had his character to live

upon, that would have been reason enough. But seeing that there was

somebody else's money, in truckfulls, the fact that that was all he

had got was just the reason why he should keep hard by.

The members of the Twickenham family would find that the head of the

house had changed; mercifully. Time had worked the usual wonders;

we'll call it time. The days of his prodigality were at an end;

relatively, let us say. And he wasn't anything near the fool he used

to be. Also, certain members of the family would find that he'd

developed quite a novel strain of generosity.

There sometimes is a motive for crime--though a sufficient motive is

not by many chalks as indispensable a criminal property as wise folk

like to think. Plenty do evil for the love of doing it. I've tried

both. I've found doing evil quite as amusing as doing good. Often

more. Even when you don't get any pull out of it when it's done. It's

the sporting instinct in a man. When a man tells me that he's fond of

sport, I know that there's more significance in his words than he

himself supposes. But in the case of Mr. John Smith the motive was

pretty plain. The Marquis had better be dead than keep away from his

sorrowing family. You could have an occasional cut at him if you knew

where he was; you couldn't if he was the Lord knows where. In his

absence the law looked after his interests; cuts--except by

the law itself--were barred. And there were so many who wanted

one--including Mr. John Smith. So it was necessary that the Marquis

should die, in order that he might have a cut at his successor.

If I had only understood what he was driving at from the first, things

might have been arranged in quite a different way. I might have said:

'You're quite right, Douglas, my boy. I'm the long-lost Twickenham.

Your recognition of me does you the greatest credit. Ask no questions,

and you'll be surprised to find how, in certain directions, my

character's developed. If the blessed lot of you were starving, I'm

the man to fill your hungry bellies. How many of you are there? Six?

What do you say to five thousand a year apiece; and, say, fifteen

thousand down to clear off backwardations? You shall have my bond for

it; my bond, my boy. It shall be a first charge on my estate. Ah! in

the school of experience one learns what it is to be wise.'

And then perhaps I might have winked. Yet I don't know. Under such

circumstances with a man like Smith a wink might be a mistake. He's

one of those who like to pretend that you believe, and that he

believes, that t-h-e-f-t spells straight as a die. No winking for him.

It turns up the right place in the dictionary with too much of a rush.

Anyhow we might have arranged matters right along. I could have

entered into the possession of my ancestral estates straight away, and

we'd all have been as happy as the day was long. But that's where the

trouble is; the mistakes you make at first, through ignorance, they're

hard to repair. Sometimes bitter hard.

As things were, the game was going to be a lot more difficult, both

for me and Smith. Though Smith, just at present, didn't know. In the

first place I should have to learn, with a quantity of surprise which

was on so large a scale as to be altogether beyond the power of words

to describe, how he'd been deluded by a two-faced scoundrel. I didn't

die. 'No. The Marquis is alive. My dearest dears, I'm he! That wasn't

the head of the house of Twickenham you saw sink to rest. Certainly

not! The tears you shed--I didn't notice any, but there might have

been a leakage--were all clean thrown away. The gentleman you have

boxed up--well, I shouldn't be surprised if they had to open the

coffin to find out who he was.' When they did find out I'd laugh. I

wonder if Smith would join me. Anyhow he'd have the straight griffin

that if he wasn't on my side trouble for him was only beginning.

Recognise the rightful Marquis, debts would be paid, and there'd be a

nice little yearly income. Be too nastily inquisitive, and it would be

clearly shown to Mr. Smith that he was the kind of felon with whom the

law is rarely gentle.

Now it's an odd thing that the chief difficulty which confronted me

was one of which most men would have thought nothing at all. I'd a

wife and children. They're possessions of which plenty of men would be

glad to get relieved. I didn't happen to be one of them. I've tried

all sorts of things. I've had plenty of money. I've been in some queer

corners of the world, and seen some queer capers, and done them. There

are games I can play, at which no man can hold his own with me; nor

yet begin. But there's only one thing which doesn't taste nasty in my

mouth. And that's my wife. She's the only thing I ever came across

that was quite worth having; and, my God, she is. It's a complete

illustration of life's little ironies that I should have been the man

to have got her; for though she doesn't know it, inside and out we're

as unlike each other as the poles are far asunder. During the last six

years it had been one of my chief ends and aims not to let her find it

out. And she hadn't--to that hour.

Now what was going to happen? In this game which I was starting on,

where did she come in?

If I'd laid myself out to play it on different lines from the first,

she might have been the Marchioness of Twickenham. Jimmy, when his

turn came, might have been a peer of the realm. And yet I didn't know.

That would have been to have smirched her with my brush. If I ever was

bowled out, which was a prospect I always had to face, they'd possibly

try to make out, and would certainly think, that she'd been in the

know with me. That would be as death to Mary.

The more I thought it over the more it seemed to me that that cock

wouldn't fight. Apart from the fact that I meant, as the Marquis of

Twickenham, to disavow all connection with Mr. Montagu Babbacombe, who

had behaved so basely in deluding Mr. Howarth, it was obvious to me

that it would still be the better policy to keep Mary out of my

ditches, and without the knowledge of their existence. I always had

lived, as all men do, and, I suppose, most women, a double, treble, or

quadruple life, as circumstances required. For a little arrangement of

that sort, in the future, I should be better placed than ever. I only

had to remove the lady from Little Olive Street, and ask her to

acquaint no one with her new address. She need never know me as

anything but James. As the Marquis I should be entitled to my little

eccentricities; his lordship always had indulged in them. And after an

absence of fifteen years, no one could cavil if I still continued to

disappear whenever the humour took me. Mr. and Mrs. Merrett would have

a better time together than they had ever had before.

CHAPTER XXII

A MARQUIS IN FACT

Since the Marquis of Twickenham was alive I thought it would be just

as well to announce the fact in the grand style. So one morning,

having arrived at the conclusion that it was about time that the

announcement should be made, I paid up what was owing for those rooms

in Clifford Street, Dalston, had my portmanteau put on the top of a

cab, and having put myself inside, drove off to Twickenham House in

St. James's Square. It was a good horse, and as it took me along as a

horse ought to, from the tingle at the tips of my fingers, and the

tickle at the balls of my feet, which made me feel I'd like to do

something high-toned in the way of fancy dancing, I knew that I was

going to enjoy myself.

Cab stopped; I stepped out, overpaid cabby, got in some work on the

knocker and the bell. Door opened and there was a young six-footer, in

a lovely livery, beautiful silk stockings, and with a teaspoonful of

flour on his manly head, looking down at me. I just walked past him as

if he wasn't there, tipped my thumb over my shoulder and remarked,

'Luggage.'

He didn't seem as if he knew what to make of me at all.

'I beg your pardon, sir, what name?'

'What name?' I looked him up; I couldn't look him down, he was a size

too large. 'Bring in that luggage.'

I don't know whether it was the power of the human eye, or what it

was; but he didn't need a second telling. He nipped down the steps,

took the portmanteau which the cabman was holding out, and deposited

it in the hall as neat and nice as ninepence. While he was engaged in

doing this another gentleman in the same rigging came sailing up to

me.

'What name, sir?'

'Don't you know me?'

'No, sir.'

'Don't you call me "sir" again, or you never will.'

I turned into a room upon my left--the first there was to turn into.

It was a good large room, but it wanted livening up. There was too

much darkness about the place, and too much solidity about the

furniture, to suit me. Footman No. 2 had followed me to the door.

'May I ask your name, sir?'

'Didn't I tell you not to call me "sir "?'

Plainly he was like his friend--didn't know what to make of me.

'I'll send Mr. Gayer to you.'

Presently in came a tall, thin old party, with a stoop. Old family

servant written large all over him. Bound to have been in the house

his whole life long. Served my father; probably my grandfather too. So

I shot an arrow into the air.

'Hollo, Gayer! Why, you're as thin as I am.'

He came right into the room and took a squint at me.

'My lord!'

He gave a little hop.

'How do? I want something to eat. Now.'

The old chap was trembling all over.

'My lord, I--I'm delighted to see you, if I may make so bold as to say

so, but I--I don't understand. It's been given out that your lordship

is dead.'

'I'm not dead. As you'll find if you don't soon feed me. Where's every

one--or any one?'

'The Marquis has gone to Cressland.'

'Who's gone to Cressland?'

'Your lordship's brother. I--I've got in the way of calling him the

Marquis.'

'Then get out of it. What's he gone to Cressland for?'

'Well, my lord, it's not generally known in the house, but I believe

he's gone to look at your lordship's coffin.'

'To look at my what?'

'At the coffin, my lord, which your lordship's supposed to be in.'

'Inside or out?'

'I rather think the coffin's to be opened. I imagine some doubt has

arisen.'

'If I'm the doubt, I have arisen. Well. Gayer, I'll talk to you

another time. At present I want something to eat.'

'Something shall be ready within five minutes. Would your lordship

like to go upstairs while it's being prepared?'

'I don't mind.'

'Your lordship's brother occupies the blue room, would your lordship

like the oak room?'

'I don't care. Anything will do--for the present.'

I emphasised the last three words, to prepare his mind for the

alterations which were at hand. Directly I got into the oak room I

knew that if I was to continue to reside in that establishment there'd

have to be as many as several. I don't like old-fashioned houses: I

don't believe I like old-fashioned anything. If I had my choice, I'd

have every thing, and every one, about me up-to-date with the

procession; not a mile and a half behind it. That great grim room,

with the black oak walls, and the catafalque of a bed wouldn't suit me

one little bit. I'd sooner have it a study in rose-coloured silk.

Things had begun well. The mischief was that experience had inclined

me to the belief that a good beginning meant a bad ending. Still it

was something to have been recognised by Mr. Gayer. It was also

something to have learned what was taking place at Cressland. I'd no

notion what had caused suspicion to be aroused. If, within a

fortnight, Mr. Smith's conscience had pricked him to that extent, then

he must be possessed of an outsize in consciences. Anyhow they'd find

that it wasn't me who'd been putting in a stay at the family

mausoleum.

As I was going downstairs I heard the sound of children's laughter

coming from a room above. It sounded queer in that old house. Youth

seemed out of place within those black walls. But I'd soon change all

that. Youth's what I keep betting on all the time. Where it don't go,

I don't go either.

'There are children in the house,' I said to Gayer, as he was settling

me at table.

'There are, my lord. They came yesterday. I hope they didn't annoy

your lordship.'

'No; they didn't annoy me.' The idea of children annoying me made me

smile. I never met a child yet with whom I wasn't on terms of

friendship at first sight. 'Send down to Mr. Foster and tell him to

come up to me at once.'

'Mr. Stephen Foster?'

'Mr. Stephen. I suppose he's alive.'

'Oh, yes, my lord, and very well. If your lordship will excuse my

saying so, he'll be as much surprised to see your lordship as

gratified. He told me with his own lips that he was present at your

lordship's deathbed.'

'Was he? One day I may return the compliment. Perhaps I'll be present

at his. Has he gone with my brother to Cressland?'

'Not that I'm aware of. In fact, I don't believe he knows Lord

Reginald has gone.'

'Then fetch him along to me.'

They fetched him along in such fashion that he arrived as I was

finishing lunch. I made a hasty meal, for I was aware that a curious

interview was close ahead. I can do as much on an empty stomach as

most men; but all the same when serious business is on hand, I like to

have it comfortably filled. And I'd made up my mind from the very

first that I'd have one meal in Twickenham House if I never had

another.

Gayer came into the room with an air.

'Mr. Foster has arrived, my lord.'

'Show him in here.'

There appeared the pertinacious old buffer who'd tried to worry me

into signing a will. It didn't require more than half an eye to see he

was all of a tremble.

'Hollo, Foster! I hear that you recently assisted at my decease.'

'I--I 'He came two or three steps more forward so that he could

inspect me at closer quarters. 'It is the Marquis of Twickenham!

But--I don't understand.'

'Nor I. I've come back to make a little stay, and I'm received as if I

were a ghost.'

'The truth is, we have been made the victims of a most audacious

fraud. Your lordship has returned at a most opportune moment. I was

just about to hand over the conduct of affairs to Lord Reginald.'

'The deuce you were.'

'It's--it's a most incomprehensible business altogether.' He took out

his handkerchief to wipe his brow; agitation actually made him

perspire. 'I have advanced Lord Reginald a considerable sum of money.'

'My money or your own?'

'Your lordship's money. But, of course, you can call upon me to

refund. I can only plead in mitigation that I supposed myself to have

stood beside your deathbed, and to have seen your lordship actually

expire. A gigantic imposition has been practised; though how, at

present, I altogether fail to understand.'

'How much has he had?'

'I'm afraid as much as twenty thousand pounds.'

'What's he done with it?'

'I have reason to believe that the major part of it has been

transferred to Mr. Howarth.'

'What, Douglas! Does he think I'm dead?'

'Mr. Howarth was the prime mover----' He stopped. 'I wish to say

nothing--speaking, as I do, as one in the dark--which I may have to

recall hereafter, so I will simply observe that it was Mr. Howarth who

discovered you.'

'Discovered me?'

'Discovered, that is, the person who pretended to be you.'

'You don't mean to say that Douglas Howarth mistook another man for

me?'

'He did.'

'Was the fellow so like me, then?'

'Now that I am actually standing in your lordship's presence I

perceive that there are points of difference. But the resemblance was

so strong that at the time I was deceived, as were the others.'

'This is a very funny story, Foster.'

'It is. And to you, my lord, I am aware that it must seem strange

indeed. A thorough investigation will have to be made, when I think

your lordship will allow that I was not deluded so easily, or so

egregiously, as may at present appear.'

'On that point, as matters stand, I can, of course, say nothing. But

since I've always understood that you were a smart man, Foster, I take

it that the man who took you in must have got up early. How much has

gone besides that twenty thousand?'

'Nothing. You will find everything in perfect order. The estate was

never in a more flourishing condition. And there is a very large sum

standing to your lordship's credit.'

'In cash?'

'In investments which are as good as cash.'

'I like your end better than your beginning.'

'May I ask where, all this time, your lordship has been?'

'You may.'

'Your absence has been the cause of great anxiety. Where has your

lordship been?'

'Foster, do you remember that I never did like answering questions?'

'I have a clear recollection of that trait in your lordship's

character.'

'I've got it still--that trait. I said you might ask, and you have

asked; so that's over and done with. What's the next business on the

paper?'

We talked figures. Very pleasant figures they were--from my point of

view. I learnt more from Mr. Stephen Foster about things I wanted to

learn than I should have thought would have been possible in such a

very few minutes. It never seemed to enter his head for a single

instant that he was being had a second time. His one desire apparently

was to rid himself of the consequences of his original blunder as

completely as he possibly could. He wanted me, in short, to still give

him credit for shrewdness, even though on one occasion he had lacked

discretion. And I gave it him. Not ungrudgingly; for that, I felt,

would have been to display an undue willingness to overlook his error.

But I allowed him to think, by degrees, that his observations were

carrying conviction to my mind, and that I perceived that, after all,

he was not such a fool as I had at first supposed.

While we were still talking some one came into the room with a rush.

It was Lord Reginald--with his hat on his head. I guess he was in too

much of a flurry to have thought of removing it.

'What is this I hear? Foster! Who is this?'

He spoke with a bit of a splutter, as though his words tumbled over

each other, he was in such a hurry to get them out.

'Lord Reginald, this is your brother--the Marquis of Twickenham.'

I rather fancy Foster gave me the whole of my title because it was

like a slap in the face to the young gentleman at the door. There was

no love lost between the pair. My affectionate relative frowned till

his eyebrows met at the top of his nose.

'Twickenham!'

I wasn't uneasy, and I wasn't flurried. Though this was an odd way of

meeting--and greeting--one's brother. It was plain he'd rather I'd

kept away. So I just turned in my chair, and I looked at him; this

time up and down; and I did a drawl.

'This Reggie? 'Pon my word, how you have grown!'

He came forward to the table, leaning against it with both hands, and

bending over it to stare.

'Are you--are you--Foster, are you sure this is my brother?'

'There is certainly no doubt this time, Lord Reginald.'

'But--but--what infernal trick has been played on us?'

'That is what I propose immediately to learn.'

I chimed in.

'And I also.'

'Possibly,' suggested Foster, 'Howarth may be able to offer an

explanation.'

I came in.

'Douglas! Don't tell me that Douglas mistook another chap for me. It's

too thin.'

'We all mistook him.'

'All? Who's all? What did you know about it? I don't believe you know

me now. You were a nice little boy when I saw you last, and I

shouldn't have recognised you; that moustache does make a difference.

I don't feel flattered. You seem to have been in a deuce of a hurry to

take it for granted I was dead. Sorry to disappoint you, but do wait

till I've had my innings.'

'Where have you been all these years?'

'What the deuce has that to do with you?'

'We never heard from you; we thought you were dead.'

'It was because you didn't think that I was dead that you arranged

that some one else should die instead of me. It's lucky for you that

I've come now. If I'd waited till you'd got both your fists in the

money-box there might have been trouble. And do you mean to say that

you've got some rank outsider down at Cressland in a coffin which

bears my name?'

'I don't mean to say anything of the kind.'

'Then who have you got? Are you suggesting that you've got me?'

'That--that's the most infernal part of it! A pretty trick's been

played by some one! It's not a man at all.'

'Not a man? Is it a woman?'

'It's a confounded doll!' I leaned back in my chair and laughed. He

didn't seem to like it. 'It's all very well to laugh, but it's got up

so confoundedly like you that--that----' He hesitated; then brought it

out with a plunge. 'Look here, Twickenham, has all this been a joke of

yours?'

Although I didn't know it, the question offered me the greatest chance

I had had--or was to have. If I'd only owned up that it was a joke,

and I'd been amusing myself by bamboozling Howarth, and all the lot of

them, I believe--well, I believe it might have been easier. But we're

bats--even those of us who have the keenest sight; and I didn't see at

the moment what the result of a negative would be. So I let him have

it straight from the shoulder; the funniest part being that I thought

I was doing something cute.

'What do you mean? Or, rather, perhaps you hadn't better tell me what

you do mean. We might both of us be sorry. I don't want to prosecute

my only brother; but when, to cover your own action, you suggest that

I've been conspiring to defraud myself for your benefit, it's a trifle

steep. Especially as Foster tells me you've already got hold of twenty

thousand pounds.'

He put himself on a chair by the table, and he covered his face with

his hands.

'I wish I was dead!' was the observation which he made.

While Foster and I were watching him some one else appeared at the

door--Augustus FitzHoward.

CHAPTER XXIII

SURPRISES

Seeing FitzHoward gave me just a little something of a turn. I got

then and there the first faint glimmer at the mistake I'd made. But as

it's a motto of mine to put on an extra size in smiles each time I'm

downed, I just sat tight and wondered who he was. There didn't seem to

be much in the wonder line about him. He came sailing straight across

at me, his hand stretched out. 'Mr. Babbacombe!'

His tone betokened joy. I knew FitzHoward. I wasn't responsive.

'Who's this person with his hat on his head? Has it become the rule

here for men to enter a room with their hats on?'

This was one for Reggie as well as Fitz. Both hats were off before I'd

hardly finished. Fitz's enthusiasm seemed a little damped. His hand

went back.

'Mr. Babbacombe, I--I was afraid you were dead.'

'What are you talking about? Foster, I hope I don't happen to have

dropped into the wrong house by any chance. First I'm mistaken for a

ghost, then--for the deuce knows who.'

Fitz kept staring at me as if he couldn't stare enough.

'You're either Montagu Babbacombe or his ghost!'

'Sorry, but I don't chance to be either. And as I've not the pleasure

of your acquaintance, and don't desire your intrusion here, allow me

to remind you that the street's handy. Foster, touch the bell.'

Foster touched the bell. Reggie interposed.

'Twickenham, this gentleman, Mr. FitzHoward, has rendered me a very

great service in exposing the fraud that has been practised.'

I sat tight. A footman appeared.

'Show Lord Reginald's acquaintance to the front door.'

Poor Fitz was all of a fluster.

'I'm a man who requires no second hint that my room's preferred to my

company, but if you're not Montagu Babbacombe I'll eat my hat.'

He clapped it on to his head as if to illustrate his meaning. Reggie

stopped him as he was going.

'I am very much obliged to you, Mr. FitzHoward, for what you have done

for me; and trust to be able to avail myself of an early opportunity

to tender you my thanks in a more suitable form.'

'My lord, you are welcome. Any little service I may do you I am always

yours to command.'

Out marched Fitz, with banners flying. I turned my attention to

Reggie.

'Reggie, to save trouble later on, may I call your attention to two

points? The first is, that I'm not dead. The second is, that I should

be obliged by your not using my house as if it were your own. As I

have still something which I wish to say to Foster, will you have

the extreme kindness to allow me to say it?' He was turning away

with--I'll bet a pound!--unfraternal feelings in his breast--strange

how little brotherly affection some men have--when a thought occurred

to me. 'By the way, where's Douglas?'

'He's ill.'

'Ill? Since when?'

'Since this morning.'

'I asked you where he was.'

'He's at home with Violet.'

'Violet? Is that that young sister of his?'

'Young? She's old enough to be my promised wife.'

As I looked at him he eyed me with quite a disagreeable expression in

his eyes. I whistled.

'Is that so? Indeed! I really think that I begin to see how extremely

desirous it was that I should be dead. What a happy family you would

have been! So sorry I'm alive. Dead men's shoes always are slow

travellers. Thank you, Reggie. I shall perhaps see you again a little

later on.'

I feel convinced he'd have liked to hit me as he went out. There's an

utter lack in some people's bosoms of that true sympathy, the absence

of which strikes a fatal blow at the very root of the family system.

It's a fact; I've noticed it before. Why, because your brother merely

twists your nose off your face, should you resent it? It's that kind

of feeling which tears an united family asunder.

I improved the occasion with Foster; filling him, I feel sure, with a

profound conviction that there wasn't much difference between the

Marquis of fifteen years ago and his lordship of to-day. I had to be

him all the way along; and I was. When I'm playing a character I like

to be thorough. When I'd been thorough enough I shunted Foster.

I felt a sort of desire to be alone. I'd been in some funny places,

but this did seem as though it was going to be the funniest. It looked

as if this was going to be the Julius Cæsar kind of thing. As if there

wasn't to be any opposition at all. I'd only had to hang up my hat in

the hall to become king of the castle. When I'd wanted all that a chap

had got I'd always been game to fight him; but I wasn't used to his

handing it over to me, without so much, even, as a trifling argument,

with a remark that it was mine. It looked as if I was in for a real

good thing.

And yet--human nature's a freak; you never know where to class

it!--and yet, I wasn't sure that I felt so inclined to kick up my

heels as I expected. The Marquis of Twickenham was an uncommonly fine

person to be: for those who liked to be the Marquis of Twickenham. I

hadn't been him much more than an hour, and already I was beginning to

wonder if I did. There were houses and lands, and money at the bank,

and servants to kick, and sacred duties to play old Harry with;

but--well, I was starting to doubt if there was freedom. The kind of

freedom I was used to, which has always been to me like the air I've

breathed. On my davy, I didn't wonder that lying scoundrel made a bolt

of it. A chap like that would have been clean wasted in Twickenham

House. Maybe he wasn't all the fool I took him for.

One thing was sure, I was going to be as free as I could manage. What

was the use of being lord of all if I wasn't above grammar? If there

came over me an inclination to dine in my shirt sleeves he'd be a bold

man who would try to stop me. And yet, as I went up again to that oak

room, I was uncomfortably conscious that, after all, circumstances

might prove too strong; and that underneath that roof I'd have to be

decent. It wasn't an inspiriting kind of thought, and I plumped down

into an armchair with the solemn conviction strong upon me that the

first thing the Marquis of Twickenham had got was the hump.

I hadn't been there two minutes before old Gayer came in and wanted to

know if he should valet me. Here was an occasion on which it was

necessary to begin where I meant to go. The idea of having that old

fossil messing about gave me the twitters. So I spoke to him like a

father.

'Gayer, you're a man in the prime of life.'

I stopped, so as to give him his chance.

'I'm an old man now, my lord.'

'Oh, no, you're not; and I'll tell you how I know. If you'd seen one

twenty-fifth part as much of the world as I have, you'd know at a

glance that I am the kind of man who does everything for himself that

can be done. It's because you're so young that you don't see it.'

'But your lordship will have a body servant?'

'What'll you bet on it? Come! I don't like the man who won't stand

shoulder to shoulder with his own opinion; what are you laying?'

'Well, my lord, I'm not a betting man.'

'Sorry to hear it, Gayer--because I am. Lay my boots against yours on

any little game you like. A man of your age ought not to have allowed

the higher branches of a religious education to remain so neglected.

Good-bye. When I want you I'll ring; I suppose there are bells to be

broken. And I don't want you, or any one, till I do ring. Hear, and

then bear that carefully in mind.'

He'd hardly gone, with something about him which seemed to say he

couldn't altogether make me out--I've noticed that look on people a

good many times; I don't know how it gets there; I'm sure I'm simple

to the breaking point--I say that dear old Mr. Gayer had hardly gone,

when somebody started fumbling at the handle of the door, and

presently open it came with a rush. When I saw that handle start

jigging about I said to myself--

'Here's Gayer's venerable grandfather come to know if he can curl my

hair. From the way he's playing upon that handle, I should say he'd

got a touch of the shakes. I'll give him another touch before I've

done with him.'

It struck me that the old-servant ticket was going to be run for all

that it was worth. The sooner I buried the entire boiling, whether at

Cressland or elsewhere, the more comfortable the Marquis would be.

This conviction had me at grips; and I was just about to give it due

and proper expression, when who should come flying into the room

but--Jimmy! My Jimmy!

I do believe that that was the first time in my life I was ever really

taken by surprise. I'm not the sort of person that's easily amazed.

Always expecting the unexpected I get used to meeting it when it

comes. But that time it had me fair. As we stared at each other I

don't know which of the two was the more astonished. But he's a spry

kid, is Jimmy. He knows his father when he sees him. And when he had

got it clear that it was me, he came at me with a run.

'Dad!' he cried. 'Dad!'

Now I was in a quandary. I was getting into the region of the unusual.

I wanted to put my arms about that boy, lift him on to my knee, and

say, 'Hollo, Jimmy!' But if I went on like that, the show'd be busted.

He'd go about telling people that I was his father. One of his

father's two thousand and forty-five names was Montagu Babbacombe. I'd

faced it out that I wasn't acquainted with any party of that name;

supposing, when I said so, that I'd counted the cost. But this was an

item which hadn't figured in the bill as I'd got it down at all. If I

wasn't careful the Marquis would have to walk downstairs. So I kind of

compromised.

'Little boy, whose little boy are you?'

'I'm your little boy--yours! yours! yours!'

He put his hands on my knees, and began to caper about as if he was

happy. Now I'd been in the habit of playing with that small child a

kind of a game in which I'd ask him whose little boy he was,

pretending I didn't know; and he'd say, 'Yours! yours! yours!' He

thought I was playing that game with him then. Which was where he was

wrong.

'You take a good deal for granted, young gentleman.'

'I don't! I don't! I don't!'

He flung himself against me, still thinking I was playing the game.

'I say you do. May I ask how you've come here!'

'I came with Pollie.' Before I could stop him or guessed what he was

going to do, he was off to the door, which he had left wide open, and

had started to bawl,' Pollie! Pollie! Here's dad! Here's dad!'

Children have a pleasant habit of bawling. But I don't think I was

ever so struck by it as I was then. I was after him like a shot.

'Here, I say. You mustn't make that noise!'

I might as well have talked to the wall. When he'd got a thing to

mention he was bound to mention it--at the top of his voice.

'I'm playing hide-and-seek with Pollie, and she won't know where I am.

Pollie! Pollie! Here's dad!'

I had to throw him up in the air before he'd stop. By then it was too

late. Tearing down the stairs came Pollie, my heart in my mouth for

fear she'd tumble, and if I'd shut the door in her face she'd have

dashed herself against it. I had to let her in, and shut the door

behind her when she was in, and hope that there was nobody about with

long ears and sharp wits.

'Allow me to ask what you young persons mean by behaving in this

extraordinary manner; for whom do you take me?'

'You're dad! dad! dad!'

There they were, bouncing about me like two indiarubber balls. They

still thought I was playing the game. The worst of it was, I almost

felt as if I was, myself. I could hardly keep my countenance, in spite

of the stake which was dependent on it.

'Pray may I inquire why you call me dad?'

'Tause you are!' cried Pollie. 'Give me a tiss!'

I picked up the small bundle of girl and kissed her; till her laughter

might have been heard on the other side of the square. While I was

still engaged in this operation the door was opened again. When I

turned to see who might be this fresh disturber of my privacy, there

was Mary.

Then I knew the fat was in the fire. This was quite a different kettle

of fish. Playing the fool with those two children was one thing.

Admitting myself to be Mr. James Merrett, after my repudiation of Mr.

Montagu Babbacombe, was altogether another. I hadn't time to consider;

to ask myself what was the meaning of her presence there. It was a

case of act first and think afterwards. That was what I did.

A smile lit up her face when she saw me standing there with Pollie in

my arms. With the prettiest cry she came towards me, holding out both

her hands. There never was a lovelier woman in this world than my

Mary; nor a better shaped. And her movements are in keeping. I'm keen

on grace in a woman. If there's anything more graceful than she is,

whether she sits, or stands, or moves, it's in a picture. I'll swear

it isn't flesh and blood. As she came, with her arms stretched towards

me, I thought that I'd never seen her looking better.

'James!'

I'd have given a trifle to have been able to take her in my arms. But

I didn't dare. I drew back--civility itself.

'I beg your pardon?'

She came closer.

'James!'

'I think there must be some mistake.'

When I said that, her arms dropped to her sides; the smile vanished;

her face went white. It hurt me to see how she changed. I asked myself

if there was any game going in which the stakes were worth all this.

'Don't you--don't you know me, James? I'm--I'm Mary.'

'Mary?' How the very name rang in my heart as I repeated it. 'I'm

afraid I'm hardly entitled to address a stranger by her Christian

name.'

'A stranger? I'm--I'm your wife.'

'My wife?' Lord! how glad I was to know it. Never man had one so good.

'I'm afraid that, unlike many men who are more fortunate, that's an

article I don't possess.'

I could see that she pressed her finger-tips into her palms. I had

never seen her look more lovely than she did then, in her bewilderment

and distress. My heart cried out to me to take her and to hold her

fast. But I didn't dare.

'What does it mean? You know my children, and you don't know me?'

'Your children?' I was still holding Pollie. On this I put her down.

'This young lady and gentlemen address me as dad, but I fear that that

is an honourable appellation to which I have no title. There would

seem to be a singular confusion. It appears that there must be some

one in existence who has an uncomfortable resemblance to myself.

Already this morning my identity has been mistaken. I was addressed as

Mr.--really at the moment I forget the name, it was rather an uncommon

one, something like--Babbincombe.'

'Do you deny me, James?'

'I don't see, madam, how I can be said to deny you when this is the

first time I have had the pleasure of encountering your charming

personality. Nor is my name James. I am the Marquis of Twickenham.'

'Daddy, I want to have a game with you.'

This was that rascal, Jimmy. I'm sure I was quite as ready for a game

as he was. Only at that particular second I didn't altogether see my

way. Mary caught at his words, with a sort of sob, which brought a

lump into my throat.

'He knows his father!'

'They say it's a wise child which knows its own father. It would seem,

madam, that your little boy is not overstocked with the quality which

King Solomon so ardently desired. You seem to take this matter

somewhat to heart. It is the humorous side of it which appeals to me.

Suppose I had taken advantage of your innocent misapprehension, what a

vista of tragedy suggests itself! I think that when you return home

you will probably find that your husband is awaiting you. And it is

then that the humorous side of the situation will appeal to you.'

'I don't understand! I don't understand!'

'Nor I. I have been away from home for something like fifteen years,

and have returned to find there are two or three things which I don't

understand. I am taken for a ghost by some; for a Mr. Babbington, or

some such person, by some one else; for their father by those two dear

little children; and for her husband by the most charming lady I have

had the honour of meeting. You will allow, madam, that these

circumstances present a concatenation of misunderstandings which are

not unlikely to confuse the rather befogged brains of a wayfarer who

has so recently returned to the purlieus of civilisation.'

I was beginning to believe that I had brought off the greatest feat

which I had ever yet essayed--I had almost persuaded Mary that I

wasn't me. She certainly couldn't depose on oath that either voice,

manner, or language was her husband's. It was, of course, impossible

to convince her altogether; at least, as she stood before me there and

then. That I recognised. Complete conviction would require time

and--well, we'll say other circumstances. But I had managed to shake

her faith--to instil a doubt in her mind as to whether she mightn't,

in some altogether incomprehensible way, be wrong. I knew my Mary. She

was one of those not infrequent persons who are bewildered by an

appearance of calm assurance. You had only to tell her, with an air

which suggested that you were stating the merest commonplace, that two

and two make five, and if you persisted long enough she'd begin to

wonder if the thing could possibly be. When she began to wonder she

was lost; at least while the wonder continued. Her mental processes

were never clear ones. And the simple explanation of her credulity was

that she preferred to distrust her own senses, rather than believe

that there was such a liar in existence.

It was a failing on virtue's side, and I loved her for it. I protest

it cut me to the quick to play the scoundrel with her on such lines.

I'd never done it before, I'd not have done it then had not the

situation developed in such unexpected directions that I saw no other

way. While her white face, quivering hands, and trembling form were

almost tearing me in two--and--hurting me the more because I dare not

show it--the situation was fortunately relieved by the advent of Miss

Desmond.

All at once she stood in the open doorway, observing the picture we

presented.

CHAPTER XXIV

AN IDYLL

I went to her upon the instant.

'Surely it is Cousin Edith?'

'Twickenham? Leonard. What does it all mean?'

'That, cousin, is the question which I asked myself. I return, after,

it is true, a somewhat lengthy absence, to find all sorts of things.

For instance, a lady whom I have never seen before claims me as her

husband.'

'Then she is not your wife?'

'Cousin! I have no wife!'

'Then you are not Montagu Babbacombe?'

'Who on earth is Montagu Babbacombe? Is that this lady's husband's

name? Have I had the pleasure of addressing Mrs. Babbacombe?'

'Come!'

Miss Desmond put her arm round Mary's shoulders, and with Pollie

attached to her disengaged hand, and Jimmy hanging on to her skirts,

escorted my family out of the room. Which was nice for me. I might

have succeeded in throwing dust into Mary's lovely eyes, but the

knowledge that, for the time at least, I'd possibly gained my ends,

didn't puff me up unduly. If it were not for the fact that I'd made it

a rule of my life never to quit a position I've once taken up till

driven from it at the bayonet's point, the Marquis of Twickenham would

have been sent flying, and James Merrett would have gone hopping up

those stairs to make love to his wife.

That first day as a marquis didn't come up to my expectations. I know

that first impressions are not to be trusted. That which begins in a

fog ends, occasionally, in a blaze of sunlight. But I didn't feel as

if there was going to be much shine about this little racket.

I went down to the library, sent for Miss Desmond, and caught her just

as she was going to shake the dust of Twickenham House from off her

trotter cases. We had a _tête-à-tête_. Talk about the glacial period!

It was warm compared to her. I said one or two nice things, or tried

to, but the cold she radiated was altogether too much for their

vitality. I made one or two friendly inquiries about how the family

had got on, and she in particular; but for all I could scrape out of

her it didn't seem as if there had been any family to get on. She'd

kind of brought into that apartment a wall about twenty feet thick and

a hundred high; she'd set it between us, and kept me on the other side

of it. It was no manner of use my trying to jump up so as to get a

peep at her over the top, because I couldn't do it. When I showed a

mild curiosity as to the personality of the lady who'd mistaken me for

her husband, the way in which she received my fugitive observations I

didn't like one little bit. I'd a dreadful notion that right inside of

her she'd a suspicion that I'd been treating Mary as no man ought to,

and that I now proposed to add desertion to the rest of my offences.

It did make me feel funny, the idea that she should think a thing like

that. Of my Mary, too! That quiet-speaking female had such a way of

making me understand that whether I was or wasn't the Marquis of

Twickenham she didn't set much account on me anyhow, that I was glad

to see the last of her. If the other members of the House of

Twickenham were going to model their behaviour on hers, we should

still continue to be a divided family.

Old Foster came up to dine with me, as per invitation. He wasn't what

you'd call exciting, but he was amusing. He'd got some interesting

things to talk about, and assisted me in cramming up family details at

a rate of which he had no notion. The style in which he took it for

granted that there was no deception this time was to me a cause of

perpetual surprise. He was a long-headed man, and, in a general way,

if you'd wanted to get on his blind side, you'd have had to get up

early. But Reggie and Howarth had put his nose out of joint. They'd

given him to understand that he was to have the kick because his

conduct during my fifteen years of absence hadn't suited their

convenience. No man likes to have the Order of the Boot as a reward

for his fidelity. My re-appearance meant his triumph over his enemies.

His appreciation of that fact I rather think tended to blunt his

faculties of observation. In the first flush of his joy he was perhaps

naturally unwilling to spoil the situation by any show of impertinent

curiosity.

At the same time let me hasten to add that his opinion of the Marquis

of Twickenham didn't seem to be much higher than Miss Desmond's. He

didn't say so in so many words, but it was easy to see that morally

and mentally he didn't rate his lordship very high. It was painful to

me to reflect that I'd come back to a family whose good opinion of me

I should have to level up; if there was any of it to level. Because,

so far as I could gather, there wasn't any one anywhere who thought

anything of the Marquis of Twickenham at all.

For instance, when I asked in a casual sort of way, as the

conversation seemed to lag: 'And how are all my old friends?' Foster

looked at me curiously out of the corners of his eyes; then down at

his glass. There was a dryness in his tone as he answered,

'I didn't know your lordship had any.'

Now that wasn't a pleasant answer to receive. The Marquis of

Twickenham ought to have some friends. What made it worse was the way

in which he said it. However I dissembled my emotions.

'Not one?'

'Whom would your lordship have called a friend of yours?'

Although there was the suggestion of a sneer, which I resented, it was

an inquiry which I was quite unable to answer. I wanted all the

information to come from him. I endeavoured to cap his sneer with

another.

'Well, if it comes to that, I don't know that there was any one who

owed me money.'

'I should imagine that there was not.' Directly he said that, I knew

that I had blundered--that, in fact, it had been only too notorious

that the owing was all the other way. Presently he added something

which did not tend to sweeten my temper.

'By the way, my lord, it is only right that I should tell you--since I

should not be doing my duty were I to withhold the information--that

there are certain matters in which your lordship was concerned which

have not been forgotten--one in particular which your lordship will

probably bear in mind.'

When a man hits me, I hit him back. When the discussion's over I ask

him to explain his reasons; not before. Business first, pleasure

after. If a man makes it his business to decorate my features, I make

it mine to endeavour to induce him to wish he hadn't. It had been

growing on me that the Marquis of Twickenham was a blackguard on lines

which weren't just mine, and that I'd no intention of bearing the

burden of sins I was not inclined to. I leaned my elbows on the table,

and I eyed my man of affairs.

'Foster!'

'My lord?'

'Look at me!'

'I am looking, my lord.'

He was, with, I fancied, a certain surprise.

'You remember the sort of man I was?'

'I do.'

'I'll tell you the sort of man that I've become. Are you listening?'

'Your lordship sees I am.'

'I've become a man who resents any attempt on the part of any other

man to take a liberty. You understand?'

'I trust, and believe, that your lordship will not find a trace of

such a disposition in me.'

'You have taken more than one liberty since you've been inside this

room.'

'My lord!'

'Do you remember what a nauseous little brat you were when you were

two?'

'I!--My lord, I don't understand!'

'No?--Perhaps your memory doesn't carry you so far back. Mine doesn't

carry me back fifteen years. In my presence don't let yours. Do you

understand that? Another point. I don't quite know why I've come back.

I may go away next week for another fifteen years.'

'I cordially hope that your lordship won't.'

'I hope, Foster, that you're not getting old. Old men are apt to

dodder.--How do you like the expression of that hope? Sounds personal,

doesn't it? In the same sense, yours did to me.--We're apt to hope

that other people won't do what they want to, but we resent that hope

when it's applied to us. I hope you're not getting old. But as the

relations which exist between us hardly justify me in attempting to

interfere with the tribute which you pay to the passing years, I trust

that I retain a remnant of courtesy sufficient to induce me not to

meddle with matters with which I have no personal concern. I feel sure

that, in that sense, you have almost as much courtesy as I have.

Oblige me, Foster, by keeping a small stock of it on hand.--I was

saying that I may go away again next week for another period of

fifteen years; or I may not. It may amuse me to take up what is called

my proper position in the country. If I choose to do so, I assure you

that, with my money, and my rank, and the way I shall set about doing

things, fifteen years ago won't count. Don't let them count with you.'

All the same I could see that there was something which had happened

in the days of auld lang syne which was slithering about on the end of

his tongue; and, to be frank, I was a trifle curious to know what it

was. But after the sesquipedalian sentence I'd discharged at his head,

for very shame's sake I couldn't ask, nor let him say. So I got rid of

him instead.

The next day we journeyed together down to Cressland, to see how

things had gone since the last time I was there. What a place for a

man to have all his own! Twenty thousand acres in the heart of

England, with a mediæval castle in which to sleep o' nights. There was

another great property in Scotland, something in Ireland, and a villa

at Cannes; besides oddments here and there. When I remembered that the

principal part of my income came from London ground rents I thanked my

stars that I hadn't to keep all the land I owned clean and wholesome

with just my own pair of hands.

When I'd made an end of spying out some of the wonderful things which

I possessed, back I came to town with Foster. When we parted at the

station I dare say he thought I was going straight back home--that is,

to the family mansion in St. James's Square. But I wasn't: I didn't.

My objective was Mary. But I had to cover my tracks on the road to

her. It wouldn't do to have it discovered that directly the Marquis of

Twickenham disappeared at one end Mr. James Merrett came out at the

other. That night I spent in Brighton. In the morning up to town.

Dropped into a little crib where I store a few trifles which I'm not

peculiarly anxious that other people should know about, and changed

into the garments of James Merrett. Got on to the top of an omnibus.

Then outside another. Landed finally in the neighbourhood of Little

Olive Street.

I was well aware that, use whatever precautions I might, I was still

taking on a pretty considerable risk. But then I'd got to be a kind of

a dealer in hazards. Been gambling in them my whole life long. And

since I'd turned myself into a family man some of them had assumed

rather curious shapes. They say that the pitcher which goes often to

the well gets broken at last. Maybe. Perhaps I'd had a chip or two

already. But that's part of the game.

I sailed along the pavement as if I hadn't a thing in the world to

fear. I'm sure that no one who'd taken stock of me would have supposed

my conscience wasn't as clear as the average. Reached No. 32. Turned

the handle of the front door, and walked right in. There was Mary in

the sitting-room, with a pile of sewing on a table in front of her,

just as I expected.

'Well, my girl,' I said, 'how's things?'

I put my hat down on a chair; up she jumped, over went the sewing, and

into my arms she flew.

'James! James!'

I got my arms right round her, and I held her tight; you bet I did. I

didn't say much, but I supplied the deficiency in another way.

Presently I did make a remark.

'Why, my girl, you look--well, I really think you're getting pretty.'

'James!'

She turned the colour of a strawberry that's just getting ripe--the

cream showing through the red. Every time I pay her a compliment she

seems to tingle right to the roots of her hair. It's an old joke, my

pretending to discover that she's getting pretty--as though she hadn't

always been that vision of all that's fair in woman, of which, until I

met her, I had only dreamed!--but every time I make it she looks that

sweet she reminds me of a meadow on the slope of a hill, in which the

spring flowers are tipped with dew.

I gave the youngsters a turn.

'Hollo! I do believe you're that little boy of mine whose name was

Jimmy.'

'Dad! dad! I knew you'd come home soon, 'cause I did ask God so hard

last night to sent you.'

'And--isn't that girl named Pollie?'

'Tourse it is! tourse it is! Ooo know it is.'

There they were, dancing about me, as fine a pair of youngsters as

you'd meet in a long day's journey.

'It's a most extraordinary thing; what does make these pockets of mine

stick out? I wonder what it is inside.'

Then there was the business of turning those pockets of mine inside

out, and discovering that there was something in every one of them.

Amazing how such things could have got there. Ah, there's nothing like

these family reunions. There wasn't a happier home than ours in the

whole of that great city. Mary on my knee--how glad I was to have her

there again--the children divided between their delight at their new

possessions, and their joy at seeing father--it's only in such moments

that we really live.

And such a tale as that wife of mine had to tell. Dear! dear! it's a

strange world, and the most incredible things do happen.

It seemed that she had been anxious about me.

'Now, Mary, haven't I told you not to be anxious? Can't you understand

that the very thought of your anxiety increases mine?'

Down came her pretty head.

'Sometimes I--I can't help it, James.'

This time she hadn't been able to help it to a very considerable

extent. She'd actually thought that I was dead. That was, FitzHoward

had been putting ideas into her head. And there was something about a

man named Smith. But the tale got pretty considerably mixed; she never

was much of a hand at telling a tale, my Mary. I couldn't make sense

of it at all. My saying so, and laughing at her, didn't make it any

plainer. Somebody--a Miss Something-or-other--had actually made her

think that I was a nobleman. That idea did tickle me so, and I put it

in such a way, that I started her laughing at it herself. And then

when she'd once started she wouldn't stop; she's a keen sense of

humour, Mary has. And she does look so pretty when she's laughing. It

does me good to see her. Then the children joined. Oh, what a laugh we

had at the idea of my being a British nobleman!

But the most surprising part of the story was that she'd actually been

to some great house, and there fancied that she'd seen me. I couldn't

follow all the ins and outs of the business as she told it, but what I

did understand fairly took my breath away.

'Do you mean to tell me,' I said, 'that you mistook another man for

your own husband?' She was ashamed. No wonder. 'What would you think

if I mistook another woman for you?'

'James!'

Down came her face against mine. Was there anything I wouldn't forgive

her when the touch of her cheek filled me with so sweet a rapture?

'Do you know, Mary, I don't understand all you've been talking

about--though I know I ought to, considering what a gift for narrative

you have.'

'James!'

'But what I do understand makes me think of something that happened to

me--ah, years and years ago. Have you ever heard of a place called San

Francisco?' She nodded. ''Pon my word, I don't think there's anything

you haven't heard of. You're a much greater scholar, wife of mine,

than you care to own.' She laughed, and snuggled closer. 'Once upon a

time I was in San Francisco.'

'James, I do believe that you've been everywhere.'

'There's only one place where I've ever wanted to be, and that's in

your heart.'

'You know you're there.'

'Mary!'

Then there was an interval. There were a good many intervals before

I'd finished my remarks. Nothing like an interruption now and then to

give you what I call zest.

She listened with the prettiest interest. Just as she'd have listened

if I'd recited one of Euclid's propositions. She cared nothing for my

story. All she wanted was to know, and to feel, that I was there. The

consciousness that her evil dreams had vanished was sufficient. When

she pressed herself against me, and felt how my heart kept time with

hers, and how her tremors set me trembling, that was all the

explanation she required. A woman's love has nothing to equal it in

its power of forgetting. If she loves you you needn't ask her to

forgive you; she forgets that she has anything to forgive.

We had tea, and Pollie and Jimmy and I made toast, and she

superintended the proceedings. She considered that we weren't so good

at it as we ought to have been; so she showed us how to improve. When

I said that the chief thing she'd toasted was her cheeks, she

whispered that I wasn't to say such things; so I kissed them instead.

Whereupon she asserted that that piece of toast was spoilt; but we ate

it all the same. And I declared, as I was eating it, that I could

detect, from the taste, the exact spot on which she was engaged when

the accident occurred. Which statement she positively asserted that

she didn't believe.

I dare say it's a funny thing to be in love with your wife. I don't

know. It's not too common a form of humour. And perhaps I'm not a

judge of what is comical. But I'm glad that I'm in love with mine. I'm

glad that she's my sweetheart--although she is my wife. The exigencies

of a life which is not entirely commonplace prevent my devoting so

much time as I could wish to my domestic duties, but this I may safely

say, that however far away from each other we may be, the

consciousness that my wife is my wife is ever with me; and the

knowledge fills me with that complete content which makes me equal to

any fortune.

After tea we had a romp with the children. I helped to bathe and put

them to bed. And when they'd gone, and we'd told each other love tales

by the fire, we, too, went up to rest. On the way we went into the

youngsters' room, and stood side by side, looking down upon them as

they slept.

'Don't you think,' asked Mary, 'that Pollie's pretty?'

'Well,' I said,' she's a little bit like you.'

She pressed my arm.

'Jimmy's just your image.'

'Poor lad!'

'James! How can you talk like that? Can anything be better for him

than to be like his father?'

'There are better men.'

'I don't know where. Nor any a hundredth part as good. I can't imagine

why you don't think more of yourself--when you're the most wonderful

man in the world.'

This assertion caused me furiously to think.

'Mary, I shouldn't be surprised but what you're right.'

'I'm sure I'm right.'

'I also have an inclination to be sure. I must be the most wonderful

man in the world, because I've you.'

'James!'

The rest is silence ... What does that writing fellow say about 'Sweet

music, long drawn out'? Is there any music like the silent pressure of

a woman's lips?

After all, there's something in being in love with your wife.

CHAPTER XXV

A REVERSION FROM THE IDYLLIC

Mr. Gayer met me in the hall. 'A gentleman, my lord, wishes to see

you.' He spoke in a half-whisper, as if he was afraid of being

overheard. There was something in his face I didn't understand.

'A gentleman? What gentleman?' Gayer came closer.

'Mr. Acrodato. We told him your lordship wasn't at home, and tried to

keep him out, but he made so much disturbance we thought we'd better

let him in. He's been walking all over the house, and behaving very

badly.'

As Gayer imparted his information, with an air half of deprecation,

half of mystery, there came through the dining-room door a gentleman.

He was big. His huge beard and mop of hair were tinged with grey; his

top hat was on the back of his head; his hands were in the pockets of

his unbuttoned overcoat. He surveyed me with a look which did not

suggest respect, speaking in accents which were not exactly gentle.

'So you've come.--Well?'

A feeling of resentment had been growing up within me with every yard

which I had been placing between Mary and myself. I had been telling

myself that this Marquis of Twickenham game was hardly worth the

candle, and that if I had to choose between Mary and the marquisate,

the dignity might go hang. Only let his lordship withdraw from his

banking account thirty or forty thousand pounds in cash, and it was

not improbable that he might disappear for another fifteen years. In

which case Mr. and Mrs. James Merrett would take a trip abroad.

This loud-voiced, blustering bully had caught me in a dangerous mood.

What he might want with the Marquis of Twickenham I had no notion. But

the contrast he presented to the sweet saint in Little Olive Street

offered me just the opportunity I needed to take it out of some one. I

walked past him into the dining-room. He followed, leaving the door

wide open.

'Have the goodness to shut the door.'

His response was the soul of courtesy.

'Shut it yourself! I'm not your servant.'

Directly he said that, I remembered where I had seen him last, and the

name by which he had been known to me; the recollection gave me the

most genuine sensation of pleasure. The Marquis of Twickenham should

be avenged.

'Mr. Fraser, shut that door!'

When I called him by that name he started.

'Who are you speaking to?'

'To Andrew Fraser--who lately carried on one of the branches of his

usurer's business at 14 Colmore Road, Birmingham. I have a statement

referring to you, which was made to me by Isabel Kingham, also of

Birmingham, half an hour before she died. That statement will supply

the police with some information they are very anxious to receive. If

you would like me to provide any one who may be listening outside with

spicy details of your connection with the lady, I am willing.'

It's not often you are able to bag a man with the first barrel,

especially a man of the type who was then in front of me. But when you

do succeed, the sensation is delicious, as I experienced on that

occasion.

That he had come to crush the Marquis of Twickenham was obvious;

having good reasons for believing that that fortunate peer was his to

crush. That he was the kind of individual who enjoyed crushing any one

or anything was as plain as the fact that he was likely to resent with

the utmost bitterness any attempt which might be made at crushing him.

Nothing, probably, had been further from his mind than the idea that

his intended victim would essay so hazardous a feat. He thought,

possibly, knowing his man, that all he had to anticipate was his more

or less abject humiliation. That first shot of mine was not only

unexpected, but hitting him even before he was fairly on the wing, it

bowled him completely over. The look of amazement which was on his

hirsute countenance was distinctly comical. He shut the door with

almost acrobatic rapidity.

'What the devil are you talking about?'

'So Andrew Fraser and Morris Acrodato are the same persons. With what

gratification the press, the public, and the police will receive the

news. We all know that Morris Acrodato carries on his business of

blood-sucking under various aliases, but it is not generally known

that Andrew Fraser is one of them. Every hand is against the most

extortionate usurer in England, and at last one of them--the hangman's

hand--will get it right home.'

He was so used to bully others, that the idea of being effectually

bullied himself was beyond his comprehension.

'Don't--don't you try to bluff me.'

'Not at all. On the contrary, Mr. Fraser, I propose to have you

hanged.'

He glanced round the room as if he feared that the walls had ears.

'What nonsense are you talking?'

'Nothing will give me greater pleasure. I once had an acquaintance who

called herself Isabel Kingham. She died in great agony. At the inquest

the medical examination showed that the immediate cause of death had

been the administration of certain illegal drugs; but by whom they had

been administered it was admitted, in the Coroner's Court, that there

was not sufficient evidence to show. More than sufficient evidence is,

however, in my possession that they were administered by Mr. Andrew

Fraser.'

'It's all a lie.'

'At that time I had not sufficient leisure to justify me in seeing the

business through. Although there was no moral doubt as to the person

from whom the medicine came, you had so managed affairs as to leave me

without actual proof. It is only within the last few weeks that I have

had the pleasure of meeting a gentleman named Matthew Parker.'

'When did you see him?'

'It appears that Mr. Parker was once a clerk in the employ of Mr.

Andrew Fraser. He distinctly remembers being instructed by his master

to purchase a bottle of a certain mixture, and to forward it to a

certain lady.'

'I'll wring his neck.'

'The missing link in the chain of evidence being thus supplied, I

still had to learn what had become of Mr. Fraser. Now that I have had

the pleasure of this fortunate encounter all that remains is to place

the entire matter in the hands of the police.'

As I observed the looks with which Mr. Acrodato favoured me, I was

conscious that he was struck, as others had been, by some development

in the Marquis of Twickenham's character which he found himself unable

to explain. And I realised, not for the first time, that there were,

as was after all only inevitable, marked points of difference between

the Two Dromios. His conduct was evidently actuated by reminiscences

of what his lordship used to be, and he endeavoured to buoy himself up

by the pleasant delusion that any alteration which might have taken

place in an inconvenient direction could only be superficial after

all.

'Look here, my lord. You bolted fifteen years ago because you'd got

twenty-five thousand pounds out of me by forging your father's

signature. And it seems that you've only come back now because you

hope to beat me again by chucking this cock and bull story in my face.

Don't you make any mistake. I'm going to have my money--with interest;

proper interest, mind; and no silly nonsense--or I'll have you!'

So that was how I came to meet my double in San Francisco. He had made

a little mistake with a pen. Well, his lordship might esteem himself

lucky that at least that piece of business had fallen into my hands. I

would do him a service right away.

'I have one remark to make, Mr. Fraser----'

'My name's Acrodato. Don't you call me out of my name!'

He positively shouted. I, also, can raise my voice. It was

undignified, but I shouted back again.

'I say that I have one remark to make, Mr. Fraser!'

He gave a startled look round; he didn't seem to relish the notion

that I might be audible on the other side of the square.

'Don't speak so loud.'

'I make it a rule to reply in the tone in which I am addressed; the

pitch, therefore, depends on you. I was about to observe, when you

interrupted me, that I have only one remark to make, Mr. Fraser, with

reference to the matter on which you have touched. You have been

completely misinformed with regard to the authenticity of the

signature which is attached to the document in question.'

'Well! You always were a bit of a liar, but that takes the biscuit! Do

you mean to say your father's name on that bill isn't a forgery?'

'I do.'

'When you ran for it because he said it was?'

'I had no wish to create a scandal by impugning my father's veracity.'

'You used to have a face before you went; but I never saw anything

like the one you seem to have come back with. I don't want to be hard

on you, although you treated me so bad. You've got the money now, and

I'm willing to let bygones be bygones. Hand over my capital and decent

interest and I'll say no more about it.'

'I don't intend to give you a penny.'

'What's that you say?'

'I intend to hang you--unless a spirit of mollycoddleism commutes the

sentence to one of penal servitude for life. Look here, my lad. Lord

or no lord, don't you take me for a fool. If you don't satisfy me

inside five minutes I'll have a warrant for you in an hour.' I rang

the bell.

'What's that for?'

A servant came.

'Fetch a constable at once.'

Mr. Acrodato seemed unhappy.

'Don't you--don't you be a fool!'

He turned to the man at the door.

'Don't you do anything of the kind.'

'You heard what I said?'

The servant was withdrawing when Mr. Acrodato became excited.

'Stop! Look here, my lord, don't you do anything in a hurry. You first

of all listen to me!'

'See that some one is ready to fetch a constable the moment I ring;

two of you remain within call.'

The man withdrew. Mr. Acrodato evidently did not relish my parting

injunction.

'We don't want to have any confounded servants listening to what we

have to say.'

'Corroboration, Mr. Fraser----'

'Don't call me out of my name.'

'Corroboration, Mr. Fraser, is sometimes useful--you will have to be

quick if you wish to say anything before I ring the bell.'