Amusement Only

"All these years I have not been able to make up my mind if I will shoot you like a dog, or stick you like a pig-which you are."

"Gentlemen," explained Hubert, with surprising mildness, "I assure you you are under a misapprehension. The likeness between my brother and myself is so striking that our most intimate friends mistake one for the other."

"For whom, then, did my sister mistake you this morning and to-night?"

A light flashed upon Hubert's brain. "You mean Angel?"

"You call her Angel! He calls her Angel!"

"I hear," observed the little man.

"If you will allow me to explain!"

The big man made a gesture of refusal. But the little man caught him by the arm. "Let the liar speak," he said.

The big man, acting on his friend's advice, let the-that is, he let Hubert speak. Availing himself of the courteously offered permission, Hubert did his best to make things clear.

"I am not-as I would have told you before if you would have let me-I am not Cecil, but Hubert Buxton." The big man made another gesture. Again the little man restrained him. "We are twins. All our lives it has been difficult to tell one from the other. Of recent years, I understand, the resemblance between us has grown even greater. But the likeness is only skin deep. Cecil is the elder by, I believe, about thirty seconds. He is a rich man, and I am a poor man-bitterly poor."

The big man spoke. "And you dare to tell me that you have been making love to my sister under a false name? Very good, I have killed a man for less. But I will not kill you-not yet-Is your handwriting as much like your brother's as you are?"

"My fist is like Cecil's."

"So! Sit down." Hubert sat down. "Take that pen." He took the pen. He dipped it in the ink. "Write, 'I promise to marry-'"

"What's the good of my promising to marry anyone? Don't I tell you that I'm without a sou with which to bless myself?"

"Write, my friend, what I dictate. 'I promise to marry-'" Hubert wrote it-"'Marian Philipson Peters-'"

"And who the-something is Marian Philipson Peters?"

"Marian Philipson Peters-Mrs. Philipson Peters, is my sister."

It seemed to be a tolerably prosaic paraphrase of "Angel." Hubert, if the expression of his features could be trusted, appeared to think so.

"And what possible advantage does your sister propose to derive from my promising, either in black and white or in any other way, to marry her? Does the lady propose to pay my debts, or to provide me with an income?"

"Attend to me, my friend-write what I dictate." The big man laid his hand on Hubert's shoulder with an amount of pressure which might mean much-or more! Hubert looked up. The pressure increased. "Write it."

The little man was standing on the other side of the unwilling scribe. He had his revolver in one hand, his knife in the other. "Write it!" he said.

Up went Hubert's shoulders-he wrote it. The big man continued his dictation.

"'Within three months after date.'"

"What on earth-"

"Write-'Within three months after date.'"

"Oh, I'll write anything. I'll promise to marry her within three minutes-to oblige you."

The big man examined what Hubert had written.

"Very like! – very like indeed. So like Cecil Buxton's handwriting that I plainly perceive, my friend, that you are the prince of all the liars. Now sign it." He arrested Hubert's hand. "Sign it-'Cecil Buxton.'"

Hubert glanced up. He dropped his pen. "Now I see!"

"Pick up that pen."

"With pleasure." He picked it up.

"Sign it-'Cecil Buxton."'

The big man spoke in a tone of voice which could not, truthfully, be described as friendly.

"In other words-commit forgery."

The tall man turned to the short one.

"Eugene, who is to use your revolver? Is it you or I? I swear to you that if this scoundrel, this contemptible villain, does not make all the reparation to my sister that is in his miserable power, I will blow his brains out as he is sitting here."

The short man smiled-not pleasantly.

"Leave to me, my friend, that sacred duty-the sacred duty of being executioner. I have long had a little grudge of my own against Mr. Cecil Buxton. I have one of those little insults to wipe out which can only be wiped out by-blood. I have not doubted all the time that this is Mr. Cecil Buxton. I doubt it still less now that I have seen him write."

"I swear to you-"

The big man cut Hubert uncivilly short. He repeated his command. "Sign it-'Cecil Buxton.'"

Hubert looked from one face to the other. He was conscious-painfully conscious! – that his was not a pleasant situation. He saw murder on the short man's face. He did not like the look of his revolver. He held it far too carelessly. That he was the sort of man who would entertain no kind of conscientious scruple against shooting him, to use his own words, like a dog, he felt quite certain.

"Let me say one word?" he pleaded.

The big man refused him even that grace. "Not one!"

While Hubert hesitated, the pen between his fingers, there came a rapping at the door.

CHAPTER IV

THE ARRIVAL OF THE OTHER TWIN

The cause of that rapping at the door was this.

Cecil Buxton arrived by the train by which he had informed Miss Danvers, by letter, that he would arrive. Hastily seeing his luggage on to a cab, he drove off to the hotel. In the hall he encountered a porter.

The porter greeted him in rather a singular manner, scarcely as hotel porters are wont to greet arriving guests.

"What! Back again!" Cecil stared, as, under the circumstances, any man would stare. "This won't do, you know. I know all about it-you've been chucked. My orders is, not let you into the place again."