The Sign of Silence. Le Queux William

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, for half-way up the forearm, on the inside, was the cicatrice of an old knife wound which long ago, he had told me, had been made by an Indian in South America who had attempted to kill him, and whom he had shot in self-defence.

      "You believe me now?" he asked, in a voice scarce above a whisper.

      "Of course," I said. "Pardon me, Digby – but this change in your personality is marvellous – almost superhuman!"

      "So I've been told before," he replied lightly.

      "But, really, didn't you penetrate it?" he asked, resuming his normal voice.

      "No. I certainly did not," I answered, and helping myself to a drink, swallowed it.

      "Well?" I went on. "What does this mean?"

      "At present I can't exactly tell you what I intend doing," he replied. "To-night I wanted to test you, and have done so. It's late now," he added, glancing at the clock, which showed it to be half-past two o'clock in the morning. "Come in to-morrow at ten, will you?" he asked. "I want to discuss the future with you very seriously. I have something to say which concerns your own future, and which also closely concerns a friend of yours. So come in your own interests, Royle – now don't fail, I beg of you!"

      "But can't you tell me to-night," I asked.

      "Not until I know something of what my own movements are to be," he replied. "I cannot know before to-morrow," he replied with a mysterious air. "So if you wish to be forewarned of an impending peril, come and see me and I will then explain. We shall, no doubt, be on closer terms to-morrow. Au revoir," and he took my hand warmly and then let me out.

      The rather narrow, ill-lit staircase, the outer door of which had been shut for hours, was close and stuffy, but as I descended the second flight and was about to pass along the hall to the door, I distinctly heard a movement in the shadow where, on my left, the hall continued along to the door of the ground-floor flat.

      I peered over the banisters, but in the darkness could distinguish nothing.

      That somebody was lurking there I instantly felt assured, and next moment the truth became revealed by two facts.

      The first was a light, almost imperceptible noise, the jingle of a woman's bangles, and, secondly, the faint odour of some subtle perfume, a sweet, intoxicating scent such as my nostrils had never greeted before.

      For the moment I felt surprise, but as the hidden lady was apparently standing outside the ground-floor flat – perhaps awaiting admittance – I felt it to be no concern of mine, and proceeding, opened the outer door and passed outside, closing it quietly after me.

      An unusually sweet perfume one can seldom forget. Even out in the keen night air that delightful