Having closed the door, I slipped into the hall and made my way to the warm, cosy room I had left earlier that night.
The door was closed, and without ceremony I turned the handle.
I threw it open laughingly in order to surprise my friend, but next instant halted in amazement upon the threshold.
I stood there breathless, staring in speechless wonder, and drawing back.
"I'm really very sorry!" I exclaimed. "I thought Sir Digby was here!"
The man who had risen from his chair and bowed when I opened the door was about the same build, but, apparently, a trifle younger. He had iron-grey hair and a pointed beard, but his face was more triangular, with higher cheek-bones, and eyes more brilliant and deeper set.
His thin countenance relaxed into a pleasant smile as he replied in a calm, suave voice:
"I am Sir Digby Kemsley, and you—I believe—are Mr. Edward Royle—my friend—my very intimate friend—are you not?"
"You!" I gasped, staring at him.
And then, for several seconds I failed to articulate any further words. The imposture was so utterly barefaced.
"You are not Sir Digby Kemsley," I went on angrily at last. "What trick is this?"
"No trick whatever, my dear Royle," was the man's quiet reply as he stood upon the hearthrug in the same position in which my friend had stood an hour before. "I tell you that my name is Kemsley—Sir Digby Kemsley."
"Then you assert that this flat is yours?"
"Most certainly I do."
"Bosh! How can you expect me to believe such a transparent tale?" I cried impatiently. "Where is my friend?"
"I am your friend, my dear Royle!" he laughed.
"You're not."
"But did you not, only an hour ago, promise him to treat his successor in the same manner in which you had treated himself?" the man asked very slowly, his high, deep-set eyes fixed upon me with a crafty, almost snake-like expression, an expression that was distinctly one of evil.
"True, I did," was my quick reply. "But I never bargained for this attempted imposture."
"I tell you it is no imposture!" declared the man before me. "You will, perhaps, understand later. Have a cigar," and he took up Digby's box and handed it to me.
I declined very abruptly, and without much politeness, I fear.
I was surveying the man who, with such astounding impudence, was attempting to impose upon me a false identity. There was something curiously striking in his appearance, but what it was I could not exactly determine. His speech was soft and educated, in a slightly higher pitch than my friend's; his hands white and carefully manicured, yet, as he stood, I noted that his left shoulder was slightly higher than the other, that his dress clothes ill-fitted him in consequence; that in his shirt-front were two rare, orange-coloured gems such as I had never seen before, and, further, that when I caught him side face, it much resembled Digby's, so aquiline as to present an almost birdlike appearance.
"Look here!" I exclaimed in anger a few moments later. "Why have you called me over here? When you spoke to me your voice struck me as peculiar, but I put it down to the distortion of sound on the telephone."
"I wanted to see if you recognised my other self," he answered with a smile.
"At this late hour? Couldn't you have postponed your ghastly joke till the morning?" I asked.
"Joke!" he echoed, his face suddenly pale and serious. "This is no joke, Royle, but a very serious matter. The most serious that can occur in any man's life."
"Well, what is it? Tell me the truth."
"You shall know that later."
"Where is Sir Digby?"
"Here! I am Sir Digby, I tell you."
"I mean my friend."
"I am your friend," was the man's response, as he turned away towards the writing-table. "The friend you first met on the Lake of Garda."
"Now, why all this secrecy?" I asked. "I was first called here and warned not to show myself, and, on arrival, find you here."
"And who else did you expect to find?" he asked with a faint smile.
"I expected to find my friend."
"But I am your friend," he asserted. "You promised me only an hour ago that you would treat my successor exactly as you treated me. And," he added, "I am my own successor!"
I stood much puzzled.
There were certain features in his countenance that were much like Digby's, and certain tones in his voice that were the same. His hands seemed the same, too, and yet he was not Digby himself.
"How can I believe you if you refuse to be frank and open with me?" I asked.
"You promised me, Royle, and a good deal depends upon your promise," he replied, looking me squarely in the face. "Perhaps even your own future."
"My future!" I echoed. "What has that to do with you, pray?" I demanded angrily.
"More than you imagine," was his low response, his eyes fixed upon mine.
"Well, all I know is that you are endeavouring to make me believe that you are what you are not. Some evil purpose is, no doubt, behind it all. But such an endeavour is an insult to my intelligence," I declared.
The man laughed a low, harsh laugh and turned away.
"I demand to know where my friend is!" I cried, stepping after him across the room, and facing him again.
"My dear Royle," he replied, in that curious, high-pitched voice, yet with a calm, irritating demeanour. "Haven't I already told you I am your friend?"
"It's a lie! You are not Sir Digby!" I cried angrily. "I shall inform the police that I've found you usurping his place and name, and leave them to solve the mystery."
"Act just as you think fit, my dear old fellow," he laughed. "Perhaps the police might discover more than you yourself would care for them to know."
His words caused me to ponder. At what could he be hinting?
He saw my hesitancy, and with a sudden movement placed his face close to me, saying:
"My dear fellow look—look into my countenance, you surely can penetrate my disguise. It cannot be so very perfect, surely."
I looked, but turned from him in disgust.
"No. Stop this infernal fooling!" I cried. "I've never seen you before in my life."
He burst out laughing—laughed heartily, and with genuine amusement.
His attitude held me in surprise.
"You refuse to be my friend, Royle—but I desire to be yours, if you will allow me," he said.
"I can have no friend whom I cannot trust," I repeated.
"Naturally. But I hope you will soon learn to trust me," was his quiet retort. "I called you back to-night in order to see if you—my most intimate friend—would recognise me. But you do not. I am, therefore, safe—safe to go forth and perform a certain mission which it is imperative that I should perform."
"You are fooling me," I declared.
For a second he looked straight and unflinchingly into my eyes, then with a sudden movement he drew the left cuff of his dress shirt up to the elbow and held out his forearm for me to gaze upon.
I looked.
Then I stood dumbfounded,