ised 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 t