INEXPLICABLE prosperity caused me inexpressible misery. Two months since, a stranger in a great city, in straitened circumstances and without employment, I was nevertheless ambitious, hopeful and happy; today, sitting in a well-furnished office, surrounded by the luxuries which wealth brings, loved by a most adorable woman, and with an assured legal career, I am a wretched, heart-broken, almost despairing man.

      No one can guess it, so I may as well make my statement.

      After graduating from college and law-school, I opened an office in a small town in Ohio with the hope of soon acquiring a fair practice, but month after month passed monotonously without this expectation being realized. It was evident that some action must be taken before my resources were exhausted. It seemed most feasible to sell my furniture, pack my few books and go to New York, in the endeavor to enter a law-office as a clerk.

      Mr. Dayton, a respectable attorney of that city, was a friend of my family, and I bore a letter of introduction to him. I secured a room at a low-priced boarding-house on the day of my arrival, and during the same afternoon called on Mr. Dayton. He received me kindly. There was no vacancy in his office. He had only one clerk, who had been many years in his service, but the old lawyer thought he might possibly obtain suitable employment for me elsewhere.

      The result of my experiment was quite disheartening, but being an optimist, I was not unhappy, although the events of the day might well have daunted a more experienced man. The next afternoon found me again at Mr. Dayton's office. He had left for the day and there was no message for me. To save carfare I determined to walk up Broadway. It was nearly dusk, and sauntering idly, I pondered deeply and somewhat acrimoniously over my want of success. The fit of abstraction was interrupted by my noticing a somewhat shabbily-dressed man, who regarded me closely. His small, deep-set, ferret-like eyes impressed me unfavorably. Imagining that he was a detective, I felt somewhat uneasy under his piercing glance, although I passed him without any sign of observation. He paused a moment, and then swift steps pattered on the walk behind me.

      "No, there is no mistake," he cried, turning toward me as he came up. "Glad to meet you, old chum."

      "I am no chum, also not old," I replied pointedly.

      "How dare you so shamelessly deny your identity? What new deviltry are you up to now?" he asked wrathfully, his small eyes lighting up with resentment and surprise.

      "None. I have committed no crime. You cannot arrest me, and must cease to annoy me," cried I excitedly, and passed by him hurriedly.

      A few minutes later a young man, dressed in the most pronounced English style, large-checked in raiment, swaggering in gait, loud of voice and red of face, came down the street.

      "How are you, Fuzzy Wuzzy?" he almost shouted, as he reached me, letting fall a heavy hand on my shoulder.

      "That's not my name, Mr. Bunco-steerer," I responded, looking him calmly but sternly full in the eyes, and withdrawing my shoulder from his superimposed hand.

      "Hah! Is that the new gag in this town? Gracious! but this is rich. Bunco-steerer! You will pay a dozen fizz for this, my boy."

      "Sir," I retorted, with some exasperation, "I shall have no financial transactions with you, nor shall I pay a dozen fizz, whatever a dozen fizz may mean in your thieves' lingo."

      At my words his swaggering air vanished; he blushed under the influence of some unusual emotion — probably disconcertion at my almost immediate discovery of his vocation — and a look of bewilderment and confusion came into his eyes. There was no manifestation of anger in his manner; amazement seemed to render him dumb as I resumed my walk up the street.

      As I was nearing Twenty-third street a clean-shaven, well-dressed stranger approached me with a look of recognition. "Here's the head centre of this conspiracy," I murmured inaudibly. He wore on the lapel of his coat the badge of a leading college fraternity, which gave assurance that he was a gentleman, and his voice had the ring of true friendliness in its tone as he addressed me.

      "Good evening, Hector," he said. "I trust you are enjoying your usual health and customary serenity of mind. No green devils with pink ears after the champagne last night, eh? You are going the pace fast and furious, old man."

      "Pardon me," I interrupted. "It is not my fortune to have the pleasure of your acquaintance. You are in error."

      "Hardly," he responded. "You cannot play Dromio of Syracuse in the streets of New York. Have you lost your senses, Hector, since we parted last night?"

      "No, sir," I answered, "but you are fast losing the manners which should characterize a gentleman."

      "If you are not prevaricating, you can easily prove it," he cried in angry tones. "Please give me your card."

      A sudden impulse to convince him of his error caused me to accede to his request. Opening my card-case, I handed him a card which bore simply my name and address. He gazed at the card incredulously, said nothing, but beckoned a passing cabman. When the hansom stopped he entered it, while I stood, somewhat bewildered, on the sidewalk. These rencounters were annoying and even gave rise to a lurking fear in my mind that I was the object of a criminal conspiracy.

      A servant awakened me quite early the next morning, knocking on the door of my room and saying that a gentleman awaited me in the parlor. I dressed hurriedly and, on descending, found that my visitor was a plainly dressed, middle-aged man. His appearance impressed me unfavorably. While his countenance was intellectual, and even refined, his eyes were shifty, never meeting mine, and seemed to indicate constant fear. He addressed me by name and asked if I could meet a gentleman at his rooms in Thirty-fourth street at eleven o'clock. He intimated that the gentleman might wish to employ me in some legal capacity. I responded to his question affirmatively, and not until I returned to my room did I connect this visit with the occurrences of the previous evening, deeming it the result of my card having been given to the stranger. I determined, however, to keep the engagement — the chance of employment should not be lost.

      The house in Thirty-fourth street was of good appearance. The man who had visited my lodgings met me at the door and went with me into a back parlor. At one side of the room was an alcove, in which stood a massive carved bedstead surmounted by a rich canopy with heavy curtains almost hiding the occupant, a very feeble, aged man, with long gray hair and beard, whose face was almost deathlike in its pallor. The old man opened the conversation with an air of rather insolent superiority.

      "You are a lawyer, I understand?" he began.

      "Yes, sir."

      "Have you an office?"

      "No, not yet," I replied, rather shamefacedly.

      "You can take a case for me that will pay you well, if I wish to employ you?"

      "Certainly, if the employment be honest and honorable."

      "You shall be asked to do nothing dishonorable. Would a thousand dollars a week be liberal compensation?"

      I shall always believe that I have the true legal instinct, for although the largest fee ever previously received by me was only twenty-five dollars, my response was doubtful and drawling.

      "Well, yes," I answered hesitatingly; "still, the charge might be a little higher than that — say fifteen hundred dollars."

      He gave me a keen, intensely searching glance, and hesitated a few moments before replying.

      "I must have perfect and uncomplaining service," he resumed. "This could be secured from others, and in a regular manner, but I prefer to manage my legal affairs in my own way. If we can agree as to the services, we will not quarrel about money matters. The employment will continue not less than three weeks; your fee will be three hundred dollars a day, and you shall have, if you succeed, an additional contingent fee of twenty thousand dollars, but I must be the sole judge of your success. Are the terms satisfactory?"

      "Yes, sir, most liberal, if the employment be not dishonorable nor too arduous," I replied.

      "Dishonorable? Let us settle this once for all. Do you consider it dishonorable to refuse to recognize in any manner people whom you do not know?"

      "Certainly not, sir," I answered, smiling.

      "Then you will have nothing dishonorable to do," he continued, "but the performance of your duties must be exact. An immense sum of money is involved in the accomplishment of my desires in the way I direct."

      "What is your name?" I asked, taking the initiative.

      "As Mr. Nemo, you may enter my name on your books as your first real client," he answered sneeringly.

      "Your secretary's name?"

      "Call him Mr. Nimmer."

      "You are certainly far from frank with your negative pseudonyms. What villainy does this masquerading conceal?"

      "None," he rejoined. "Temper your language, sir. I assure you I am seeking the accomplishment of a legal object. Your scruples are puerile and quixotic," and his manner was arrogant and scornful.

      "Perhaps the services are very arduous," I ventured.

      "On the contrary, they are trivial," he replied. "My secretary will take down my instructions in writing, that there may be no mistake. Your chief service will be to ride in Central Park. You will drive from this house with Mr. Nimmer to various shops, where a complete outfit will be ordered for you at my expense. You will send an order to your boarding-house for your trunk, and will return there no more. You will go to some quiet village for a week, while your clothing is being made. At the proper time Mr. Nimmer will come for you and bring you back to the city. During the next two weeks, while residing in a house with him, you will see no visitor and receive no communication. You will ride each day in Central Park; and mark this — you will accord no recognition, by look or word, to anyone whom you do not personally know, neither admitting nor denying your identity if questioned. If you shall have occasion to ride with a lady, you will treat her courteously, but will not seek to discover more than her first name. You will not leave the house except for these rides in the Park. On quitting my employ you will consent to be instantly conducted to a room, where you will remain twenty-four hours, and will shave your mustache and have your hair cut short before you emerge therefrom, and not until after this time will you endeavor to discover the identity of anyone with whom you may be associated. These are the specifications of our contract, and you must solemnly promise to perform them strictly, if you undertake this simple case," and he smiled cynically at the euphemism of his final remark.

      I pondered deeply a few moments. Wealth, mystery and adventure are a powerful combination; they were too much for me, and taking a sudden, if rash, resolution, I said: "I will take the case." In justice to myself, I must say that I had no time to consider what this employment involved, and, when my assent was once obtained, no opportunity was given for retraction. Under direction of my employer, Mr. Nimmer at once paid me twenty-one hundred dollars in large bills.

      "This is your first week's salary, in advance," said Mr. Nemo. "You will be paid weekly in advance, except the contingent fee, which will be paid if you deserve it. Now, with uplifted hand, pledge your word of honor that you will perform your duties strictly to the letter."

      I did so, and his voice trembled with emotion as he said: "Good-bye. Mr. Nemo may be no more before your work is ended."

      Mr. Nimmer and I withdrew. A carriage was awaiting us outside and we were at once driven to various shops where a complete outfit of clothing? shoes and other articles was ordered to supply the deficiencies of my wardrobe. We were then driven to the Forty-second street railway station, where I found my trunk awaiting me.

      I went by train and stage-coach to the village of Ivyvale. I passed a week at this village in solitude, spending the monotonous hours in fishing, desultory reading and pondering deeply and somewhat regretfully on the singular conditions of my employment.

      Mr. Nimmer came to Ivyvale the following week, and when we reached the city, late in the evening, we drove up Fifth avenue. Our carriage stopped before one of the finest residences on that street of palaces. Mr. Nimmer conducted me to splendid apartments in the second story, where all the articles ordered the previous week were awaiting my arrival.

      "So far, we have not spoken of our peculiar position," Mr. Nimmer remarked the next morning during our late breakfast. "I say 'our,' for I, too, am forced to earn my hire like yourself. This undertaking shocks all my better impulses, and I have vainly tried to persuade our employer to accomplish his purposes by other means. He is imperious, unreasoning, yes, even remorseless, and persists in following his own plan. I am completely in the power of this man, and am forced to do his bidding. Do not make my bitter task harder than is necessary."

      "What is this task?" I inquired.

      "I am pledged not to tell you," he answered. "I know much more of this mystery than yourself, yet am far from knowing it all, but a fortune depends on the success of your conduct of this matter, simple as it may seem to you. Do not ask me to tell you more, but for heaven's sake perform your duties strictly as you have promised."

      "Never fear, my word has been given, and will be kept," I replied.

      Mr. Nimmer sat by my side as we rode in a splendid equipage through Central Park that afternoon. Nothing peculiar occurred, except that several gentlemen appeared to regard us with surprise, and also with anger and contempt, when their salutations were not returned. We always drove quite slowly, and the following day I noticed an elegant landau in which were seated two ladies. One was probably sixty years of age, coarse-featured, stout, overdressed and vixenish and repulsive in appearance; the other was apparently about thirty-five years old, sharp-featured, yellow-haired, thin-lipped, with cold gray eyes deeply set under a scowling brow. She reminded me at the same time of a cat and a wasp. These ladies regarded us with curiosity as they passed, nodding coldly. Neither of us recognized the salute, to the evident astonishment and chagrin of the two ladies.

      During the succeeding days men whose salutations I had failed to notice grew more contemptuous in their treatment, averting their heads in anger or disgust, and not only the ladies we had slighted on the second day, but others, showed marked disapproval of my conduct.

      The evenings were passed in the library adjoining my sleeping-room. Each night the electric bell of the front-door was rung many times, and I often heard voices raised in angry expostulation at the doorway. Mr. Nimmer, however, attended the door himself, and no one was permitted to cross the threshold.

      Toward the close of the week, as we drove through the Park, there came riding toward us a queenly girl, a perfect type of brunette beauty, stately in demeanor and proud of carriage. She was mounted on a spirited horse, which she controlled with much ease and grace. She jauntily raised her whip as a sign of salutation as she approached. I regarded her coldly and unconcernedly, but the blush of shame and humiliation mantled my cheek at this fulfilment of my hateful promise which required the commission of such an outrage.

      "Oh, Hector! dear Hector!" she addressed me, an expression of surprise and sorrow sweeping over her features, "I heard of this and have traveled many miles to convince myself that you were wronged and slandered. Do you realize the awful fate which awaits you if you persist in your wretched course? Do you know what is being said of you? Arouse yourself before the penitentiary shall yawn for you and you become a wretched outcast."

      "I shall persevere in my present course to the end, come what may," I responded calmly, summoning all my resolution. "Pray trouble yourself about me no further."

      "Headstrong as you are," she rejoined, "I hope this may not be true. I shall call at your residence this evening to endeavor to persuade you to change your mind. Surely you are not entirely lost to honor and to decency."

      Tears were in her eyes as she rode away. That evening the ringing of the door-bell was almost constant and the protests at the door were loud and violent, but no one was admitted to the house.

      The next morning Mr. Nimmer seemed perturbed and deeply troubled.

      "Difficulties and dangers are gathering around you," he announced dolefully. "The plot thickens faster than Mr. — Mr. — I beg pardon — Nemo foresaw. You will have another companion henceforth on your rides. Be brave; it is possible I may fear perils which do not exist."

      For the first time I felt my heart chill as I contemplated my peculiar employment. What were these dangers? The beautiful equestrienne had spoken of the penitentiary. Was it possible that I was the centre of a great criminal conspiracy?

      Mr. Nimmer accompanied me to the carriage when it arrived. Seated therein was a beautiful girl, tastefully and elegantly dressed, of about twenty years of age. Her dark chestnut hair fell in wavy masses from her head. Her countenance had that saintly expression, that angelic innocence which made the fame of Raphael's Madonnas. Her complexion was olive, smooth and clear, while her cheeks were tinted with conscious blushes as her large, luminous brown eyes looked into mine. A bewildering premonition that she would be to me the one woman in the world swept over me and I trembled with emotion.

      "Eudora, permit me to present a friend," said Mr. Nimmer.

      The girl drew back from me with an appearance of aversion amounting almost to horror.

      "How dare you approach me again, after your villainous conduct?" she cried excitedly, indeed angrily.

      "Miss Eudora," said Mr. Nimmer quickly, but very earnestly, "you are deeply in error; you have never before met this gentleman."

      "Miss Eudora," I said gravely, my voice revealing my deep distress, "I have never had the pleasure of meeting you until this moment, but if you prefer not to ride with me, I do not wish to annoy you."

      "Yes, the voice is very different, but the resemblance of the features is marvelous," she replied, a faint smile sweeping over her Cupid-bow lips. "Pardon my error," she continued, "I regret having mistaken you for another — an abandoned and heartless villain."

      Having taken my place in the carriage, we were driven up the Avenue.

      "Sir, I trust you will not despise me for driving out with you, alone, in circumstances like the present," said Eudora impulsively, turning toward me.

      "Despise you!" I exclaimed. "Heaven forbid. Has anyone ever failed to treat you with respect?"

      "You cannot imagine to what a girl is subjected when she is helpless and unprotected. When my father lost his fortune by the rascality of his trusted friend, and died of a broken heart, I was just finishing my education at a famous boarding-school, and came home to find nothing saved from the wreck, while I had my invalid and helpless mother to support. I will spare you a recital of how easily my situations were obtained, and how insult after insult forced me to relinquish them. My spurning of insults made me enemies, and at last every door seemed closed against me. I had pawned my last decent dress when this mysterious employment was offered to me. My remuneration for this service seems to me an immense sum, and all I have to do is to ride in Central Park. Is this some trap? Tell me if it is, and I will leave this carriage and return the beautiful dresses which were made for me, I know not why."

      "I beg you, Miss Eudora," I replied, "to distress neither yourself nor me. You can feel perfectly secure in my presence. I know of no trap, and will protect you, no matter what dangers we may both be facing. Do you know why you were selected for this employment?"

      "On account of my resemblance to someone else," she answered. "I don't know whom, but hundreds of men stared impudently at me as the carriage came up the Avenue. Lest my good name may be assailed, let me show you marks of identification which probably no one else possesses."

      She turned down the glove on her right hand, revealing on her wrist a faint scar in the shape of a cross; then, lifting the wavy brown locks from her left ear, she showed me on the lobe an almost imperceptible pink, crescent-shaped birth-mark, which, as she blushed under my gaze, intensified into a deep crimson.

      Eudora's employment seemed similar to my own, although I judged her compensation was much less. I was too much engaged in reassuring Eudora to observe how we were regarded that afternoon, but she blushed occasionally under stares more rude than usual, and especially when the fair equestrienne, who had evinced so much interest in Hector, glanced at us with an expression of deep disgust, turning away her head.

      During the succeeding days the two ladies who rode in the landau seemed to take additional, spiteful interest in me, and as we passed each other slowly, one afternoon, the older one, evidently addressing me, muttered: "Miserable, cowardly thief!" On the second day thereafter, while we were passing them, the younger woman drew a rawhide whip from under the carriage rug and struck a vicious blow at Eudora, her aim evidently being to mark her face. With a quick grasp I caught the descending lash, tore it from the vixen's hand and threw it into the carriage.

      For Eudora and myself the days had been passing away like dreams. The common mystery which surrounded us drew us together. Our wooing was sweet, even amid unknown and mysterious perils. I felt, after this attack, that I should have the right to protect my sweetheart, and our troth was plighted that afternoon.

      The next day at luncheon Mr. Nimmer said: "A crisis is approaching. We will resume our drives together today."

      As we drove toward the upper end of the Park a carriage came toward us in which was seated an elderly, gray-haired man whose presence was an insult to any chaste woman. So malodorous and notorious was his reputation that even I, a stranger, knew him by his infamous nickname, "The Millionaire Angel." An elderly lady occupied the front seat, but what was it that struck me like a blinding flash of lightning? By his side there sat Eudora, my Eudora, with her gloved hand calmly resting on his arm. She noticed my glance of horror, but her only apparent response was a smile of amusement. I actually felt faint under the overpowering mingled emotions of rage, shame, humiliation and jealousy.

      Mr. Nimmer consented to drive home immediately. Several persons tried, ineffectually, to speak to us on the homeward drive. At the door of the house, however, was a man not to be evaded. He approached me and laid his hand on my shoulder.

      "Hector," he asked, "will you turn over the money, or shall we let the law take its course?"

      "Do as you like," I answered, "I have taken nothing and can make no restitution."

      "Then your time is short," he replied. "At any rate, your ruin is on your own head. Who could have believed that you were such a miserable scoundrel, coward and thief?"

      Before I could make any reply, or even gather myself to strike him, Mr. Nimmer seized my arm and hurried me into the house, going at once to the library and requesting me not to visit my own room. I heard noises there, as if the room were being ransacked, but the intervening door was locked.

      While we were at dinner that evening there was a clamor at the front-door. I heard loud, excited voices and the words, "warrant," "arrest," "thief," then the door was violently closed. Mr. Nimmer's voice was almost drowned by the heavy blows, apparently of hammers, which then rained upon the front-door.

      "Come," he said, "it is almost too late; you must leave this house at once."

      "Am I threatened with arrest?"

      "Yes, sir."

      "Then I will not go," I replied; "I am not a criminal."

      "You must go," he responded. "Your three weeks have passed; you must quit this house at once. Your word of honor is pledged to go instantly to the place provided for you. Your own safety demands this also. Remember your contract, your promise. You have won your twenty thousand dollars, too. Do not ruin all now, at the last."

      I yielded. We went out by a side-door, and took a cab standing a little way down the street. A policeman followed us, but we were too swift for him. A few minutes later the cab stopped in front of a large apartment-house. I found an elegantly furnished suite of rooms prepared for me. Costly paintings were on the walls, the furniture was new and luxurious, and the windows looked out upon a small park.

      "This," said Mr. Nimmer, "is your new home, rented for a year; all the furnishings are yours, and your effects were removed here early this evening. All is provided for your comfort if you will quietly remain here and not seek to probe this mystery. Will you allow me to shave your mustache now?"

      "Yes, I suppose I must," I answered reluctantly.

      He performed the operation, and then clipped my hair closer than I have worn it since I fought prizefights with my boyhood companions. As I was quite nervous, Mr. Nimmer persuaded me to take a sleeping-potion.

      "You were paid yesterday for a week in advance," he said, "but we will make no deduction." Then, placing on the table twenty thousand dollars and suddenly saying, "Good-bye; remember my advice," he left the room.

      It was after dark the following day when I awoke. The sleeping-potion had evidently been very powerful. I hardly recognized my features when I looked in the mirror, the change was so great.

      Two days later, while walking in Central Park, I again saw the supposed Eudora riding with the complacent millionaire. Stopping a man, I asked: "Do you know that lady?"

      "That lady! Well, where have you been? That is Cleoncita, the great French singer. Go to the music-hall where she sings, if you are predisposed to form her acquaintance."

      I knew the name. The whole world knows it, and knows — well, what does it really know? I went to the manager of the music-hall that evening, and requested an introduction to Cleoncita.

      "She is much maligned," said he. "She has a reputation which would shame Catherine of Russia, yet she is as chaste as the virgin snow on the summit of Mont Blanc. Who can blame her for fooling a prince or a millionaire out of a few diamonds, simply by riding in a park with her admirers?"

      His words stunned me, as if the thrust were a personal one, but there was no trace of innuendo in his manner.

      He introduced me to Cleoncita later in the evening. I asked her only two questions.

      "Will you permit me to see your right hand?"

      "Yes, certainly." She extended it. It was fair, slim, firm and graceful, with no scar upon the wrist.

      "Can I see your left ear?"

      "What!" she exclaimed. "I beg your pardon. I comb my hair over my ears. Some people are malicious enough to say I have none." Blushing, she raised a tress of hair. No crimson crescent blazed before my eyes. I thanked the singer with the saint-like face for her courtesy, and withdrew.

      With my mind at ease regarding Eudora, I took active measures to solve the mystery of my employment. The house on Fifth avenue was in charge of a very deaf old care-taker, who said he did not know the owner, who was in Europe. The house on Thirty-fourth street was vacant, and a rental agent's card was on the door. I drove to his office and inquired pointedly about the former occupant.

      "No private detectives need spy around this office," the agent answered brutally. "You look too much like a decent man for your miserable calling."

      Still determined, I went to a private detective agency, but was not allowed to tell my story. After the first few sentences the manager said: "No; we don't want your case. We don't deal with cranks," and as I left the room his assistants said: "Nice-looking young fellow. Pity he's off, isn't it?"

      That evening I met two college classmates — one of them a young clergyman — who were stopping at an uptown hotel. They received me rather coldly, but I needed advice, and so told my story. My ministerial friend looked very solemn.

      "It is bad enough," he observed, "to win an immense sum of money by gambling without lying about it afterward. Several college men knew you in the gambling-hells, although you refused to recognize them. Reform while there is yet time; you are not yet wholly lost."

      Before I could even make any denial or explanation, my other classmate gave his view of the matter.

      "And another thing," he began, "don't imagine you can hide your sins because you are comparatively a stranger in the city. You ought to have dreamed a better story than this, while you lay stupefied in the opium dens of this city, out of one of which a friend endeavored to drag you, notwithstanding your denials of your identity. At any rate, don't tell this monstrous yarn to anyone who knows you."

      For a month I hunted and guardedly advertised for Eudora, but found none who ever heard of her. I opened my law-office with some little success, and joined the Culture Club, composed of college graduates. Friends surrounded me, and my life was luxurious, but this unfathomable mystery, awful in its scope and far-reaching in its ramifications, oppressed me like a nightmare.

      At last, grown desperate, I determined to seek some clue through advertisement. This I prepared with the greatest care, in order to guard against any revelation of my own identity in the case, but I embodied in the paragraph the distinctive names by which I knew the various parties most concerned, and some of the more striking events that might tend to attract comment. This advertisement I caused to be inserted in the leading newspapers in America and England.

II

      In the few days immediately following this publication my office was inundated by letters addressed to "X," the signature I had given.

      Among countless others came this, which bore neither date nor address:

      A cablegram was sent to a firm of solicitors in London, requesting that inquiries be made regarding Mr. Duvinage. Two days later the following answer was received:

      Party lives seventy-nine B, Portland Place; fine establishment; black hair, dark complexion, brown eyes, six feet tall, athletic, millionaire.

      The personal description being similar to my own, and my partner having agreed to take charge of our business, I determined to meet Mr. Duvinage, although it involved an ocean voyage. Ten days later I was in London, installed in comfortable apartments near Portland Place.

      From the rear room of my suite one could see a part of Mr. Duvinage's residence, in fact, could walk over low roofs to a window of his library in the second story. I called the following day at the residence of Mr. Duvinage, handing the servant my card.

      "What business?" he asked.

      "Business I can discuss only with Mr. Duvinage," I answered.

      The servant soon returned, saying his master refused to receive anyone who declined to state his business, and closed the door.

      Mr. Birch, the junior member of the firm of solicitors I had employed, invited me the next evening to dine at the Bachelor Club, saying that Mr. Duvinage was often there during the evening. While my young friend and I were seated in the reception-room of the club a tall, dark, well-dressed gentleman entered the room. It was like seeing myself in a mirror, so startling was the resemblance. An introduction followed, and he presented a card bearing the name Hector Arton Duvinage. We conversed pleasantly a few minutes, and he impressed me as being a cultivated man of the world, although somewhat haughty in his bearing.

      Glancing a second time at the card I noticed the middle name.

      "Arton," I observed, "is a peculiar name. My mother's twin sister, Harriet Worden, married a gentleman of that name."

      The change in Mr. Duvinage's manner was sudden. With a surprised and malevolent glance he responded: "Yes, she was disowned by her family, I believe."

      "Was her husband a relative of yours?" I asked.

      "Yes, but I am not seeking to claim kinship," and there was covert sarcasm in his tone.

      "My visit to England is for the purpose of gaining from you some information on a subject of deep interest to myself," I continued.

      "A family matter, no doubt," he replied. "Why did you not say so when you called at my residence? It must now await a more convenient occasion. It is unusual to accost a gentleman on personal matters at his club. No offense, simply a lesson in the usages of polite society," and there came into his eyes a viperish and vengeful gleam.

      I felt suddenly bewildered and confused. Where had I seen that glance before? Somewhere those baleful eyes had looked into mine, but where? My cheeks flushed with anger at his stinging reproof, but I controlled my feelings, making no response as he passed on through the room. Mr. Birch was both astounded and chagrined at his peculiar conduct.

      During the next few days I made persistent attempts to obtain at least a short interview with this man, but in vain. I wondered what could be the cause of his conduct. Did he know of my having personated him in New York, or was he maintaining the family feud to which he had alluded?

      One day while walking in Regent's Park a lady came toward me with a look of recognition in her eyes.

      "Hector, dear Hector," she began, "I have tried in vain to see you during the last two days. I urge you to forego your design regarding Eudora and our young countryman. It is both criminal and on ——"

      Recognizing her as the fair equestrienne who had evinced so much interest in Hector when we met in Central Park, as quickly as I could summon my thoughts I interrupted her: "Pardon me, madame, I am not Hector, but his counterpart, whom you met in New York."

      "Is it possible I can be a second time in error?" she cried in astonishment.

      We exchanged cards. Hers bore the name Olive Darrell.

      "Perhaps my remarks were unguarded," she said. "I have a deep interest in thwarting one cherished plan of Mr. Duvinage's. In four days he will be my husband."

      "What do you know of Eudora, and where is she?" I asked.

      "Pardon me. I cannot, in honor, betray the secrets of Mr. Duvinage, but Eudora is in no great danger. Take warning for yourself. You are in imminent peril if you cross Hector's path. Have you not injured him enough already?"

      Her words puzzled me. What hold could Mr. Duvinage have on Eudora? Had he learned of her employment in New York and was he endeavoring to wreak vengeance on her for that reason?

      Returning home I wrote and sent the following note:

      When I had signed and despatched this note I felt more at ease. I reasoned that Mr. Duvinage would grant the interview as the easiest way out of a dilemma. As I pondered more deeply on the matter, however, the warning of Miss Darrell came to my mind, and I felt less self-satisfied, and finally sent for Mr. Birch.

      When informed of my action regarding the note he was evidently alarmed. He said frankly that it was a striking instance of a lawyer who manages his own case having a fool for a client. While we were discussing the best plan of action under the untoward circumstances a telegram was brought to me. It was from London, sent to New York and repeated to London. Omitting the address, it read as follows:

      I went at once to Markham's Hotel, but, as I expected, there could as yet be no letter there for me. The message puzzled me. Eudora was in London, in the clutches of someone named Raymond, yet subject to the persecution of Mr. Duvinage. The more I studied the matter the deeper grew the mystery of my strange employment.

      Mr. Birch advised that detectives be employed, some to watch Mr. Duvinage's residence, in the hope of discovering the whereabouts of Raymond, through his communicating with Mr. Duvinage, and three to guard my own person, as he believed me to be in serious danger from the criminal designs to which Miss Darrell had referred.

      Up to the evening of the following day no answer to my note had been received. Mr. Birch passed the day with me, and a little after six o'clock in the evening we went to dine at Tavistock's, the detectives following us. When returning from dinner Mr. Birch stepped into a chemist's shop to make a purchase. I was slowly walking on alone, when suddenly a sack was thrown over my head and I was seized by three men, who hurried me toward a carriage. Mr. Birch, having quitted the shop, rushed toward me crying, "Murder!" and at the same time our three detectives pressed forward with loud outcries. The cabman, becoming alarmed and eager to escape, drove off. My assailants at once released me and ran in different directions. We captured two of them, however, and took them to my rooms.

      "For whom are you acting?" I asked one of them.

      "I shall not tell," he answered.

      "Be careful. You are a criminal. You will be put in charge of the police instantly, unless you give me the name of your employer, which, however, I know without your confession: Mr. Hector A. Duvinage," said I.

      "I am not sure," he replied, "what our employer would desire done under the circumstances."

      "Tell, or take the consequences."

      "Well, we were acting for Mr. Duvinage, but were honest in our intentions. He said you were a lunatic."

      It at once became evident to Mr. Birch and myself that the criminal intention of Mr. Duvinage was to confine me in a private lunatic asylum. He would soon know of the failure of his plan. Action must be taken at once, or Eudora would be lost to me forever, as well as all chance of solving the mystery which surrounded my employment.

      Turning to that one of my assailants who had spoken, I said: "Put your statement briefly in writing." He did so, and both of them signed it. We then tied their hands and feet together, and left them in charge of one of my servants.

      "Mr. Birch," said I, "I am going to change my appearance slightly, and at once force my way into the presence of Mr. Duvinage."

      "The enterprise is very hazardous, the danger very great," he responded.

      "I know it," I returned, "but the only woman I ever loved is in danger from this man. She may be lost to me forever if I hesitate. If I fail, I can lose no more."

      "I will not dissuade you from your course, under the circumstances, but will aid you if I can," was his response.

      "Unless I signal you from the window of Mr. Duvinage's library in half an hour, go to a magistrate and secure a warrant for his arrest. Two hours later break down the doors. You may find my dead body within. Have the house guarded on all sides by our detectives, and under no circumstances let Mr. Duvinage pass out in the meantime."

      Going to the house in Portland Place, I rang the bell violently.

      "What do you mean by putting on the latch and locking me out?" I asked the servant angrily, when he came to the door. He took me for his master and drew back in dismay. Passing up the stairway and throwing open the library-door, for the first time I was alone with Hector Arton Duvinage. As he rose up, manifesting surprise and anger, there was such domination and malevolence in his glance that my mind was bewildered and confused. The same emotion I had felt when I met this man at the club was now intensified until it became a chill, that nameless curdling chill you are said to experience when one steps on your grave.

      It needed his insults to recall me.

      "Scoundrel!" he cried. "When doors are closed against you, like vermin you creep into houses by night!"

      "Mr. Duvinage," I responded, "my business here is not to bandy insults with you, but to demand from you the address of a certain young lady, and also a written explanation of the causes of your criminal course toward me tonight."

      He resumed his seat at a massive table drawn close before a very large fireplace in which the ashes were deep, although there was no fire. Suddenly opening a drawer he grasped a revolver. I remained perfectly calm. He appeared disconcerted at my lack of action.

      "You prate of criminals. Why should I not lay you dead at my feet as a burglar?" he asked angrily.

      "You know why you do not."

      "Why?"

      "Because, as Courtland Mansfield says, with you the only sin is the sin of being found out," I replied. At the words "Courtland Mansfield" he became livid, and the contortions of his features were like those of a writhing demon.

      "The hell-hound, the damnable villain! So it was he that gave you my address. What has the sin of being found out to do with our affairs?" He still held the revolver.

      "Have you noticed," I asked, "that I am unarmed, and have made no attempt at defense, notwithstanding all your braggadocio? Read this." I handed him the statement of his accomplices.

      "If there is no signal from this window in half an hour," I resumed, "a warrant will be asked for your arrest. Two hours later Mr. Birch will break down your doors. This house is guarded front and rear. You cannot escape. In England you cannot corrupt officers of the law, as it has been hinted you have done in your own land. Your wedding day will be passed behind the bars unless you make the required statement and give me the address I demand. Besides, none but a coward would attack an unarmed man." He laid down the revolver and pondered deeply for the space of two or three minutes.

      "I have never been compelled to do anything against my will," he said. "What is it you want?"

      "A statement of the causes of your criminal action toward me, and the address of Miss Eudora Lanier."

      "Ah! that is your family affair, is it? You, of all people in the world, should know the causes of my actions toward you — you vile personator!"

      "So you know of that?" said I. "Your statement, then, will clear the mystery which surrounds my employment."

      "What am I to have if I furnish the address and make this statement?" he asked.

      "Freedom from arrest for the crime of attempted abduction," I answered.

      "It is not enough," he rejoined; "I must impose three conditions. First, I must be permitted to go to my study for a document from which I wish to quote in the statement. Second, I shall write and seal a note. You, subscribing the envelope, will put it in your pocket. Third, you will not open this note nor the statement, which will also be sealed, for three weeks from this date." Fearing treachery, I went through the rooms. The only door to the library was that opening into the hall. This I locked and bolted at the top and bottom. The study was simply an alcove, with curtains hanging over the communicating archway. No one was in either room. I thought over the conditions and then accepted them.

      Mr. Duvinage went at once to the study, and I took the opportunity to quietly draw the cartridges from the revolver still lying on the table, and then went to the window and made the agreed signal to Mr. Birch, whom I saw standing at a window of one of my own rooms.

      During the time he was in the study Mr. Duvinage apparently talked to himself, his language being interspersed with oaths. I looked into the room as he came out; it was empty.

      Separating several sheets from a pad of writing-paper, Mr. Duvinage wrote for a few minutes, signing his name near the bottom of the second page. Enclosing the two sheets in an envelope, he passed it and the pencil to me, and looked at his watch.

      "Write," he said: "'Received this enclosure at 9.12 P.M.' Sign your name, and place the envelope in your pocket."

      As I did so I saw his eyes light up with a gleam of triumph, and a sinister smile stole over his features.

      Seizing a pencil, Mr. Duvinage now wrote quite rapidly for over an hour, placing the sheets, bottom upward, upon the table. He was still writing rapidly when he suddenly looked up, and a change came over his features.

      "The time is up," he exclaimed, and hesitated a moment as if doubtful whether he should continue writing. He regarded me with an expression of curiosity, and there was a cruel, cynical smile on his face as he added a few lines and then laid the final sheet with the rest upon the table.

      "Under existing circumstances," he began, and there was a covert threat in his tone which startled me, "I do not wish to deprive you of the address you so much desire. It is Number 39 Forrest Road, St. John's Wood, London.

      "This is a true statement," he continued. "I have not spared you. It does not give a very full account of your charmer."

      "What do you know of Eudora?" I asked.

      "Nothing much. Eudora is at least as sinless as her double, who ——"

      Those were the last words I ever heard from the lips of Hector Arton Duvinage. As I sprang at him, in blind, ungovernable rage, I saw the light of victory flaring in his face. He had gained that for which he had been striving — to provoke me to an attack, so that he could kill me. The deadly glitter of triumphant murder was in his eyes.

      How that scene rises before me now! Duvinage, by a swift blow, staggers me, turning me partially round, and I see behind me another man. How could he have gained entrance here? The door is still locked. I recognize him instantly, and now know there will be a desperate struggle for those scribbled pages upon the table. With the deadly energy of despair I spring at Duvinage. He snaps the revolver in my face; being unloaded, no report follows. He brings it down upon my head, cutting a small vein in my temple as I spring aside, but his accomplice, already grappling me from behind, receives almost the full force of the blow, and falls stunned on the floor. Heavy blows are now being rained upon the door. Then begins a struggle for life. We grapple. we wrestle, fiercely and blindly, around the room. Now — oh, horror of horrors! — his hand is closing in a vise-like grip around my throat. Lifting my antagonist by a desperate effort, we fall together to the floor, our heads within a foot of the fireplace. Again the hand closes with that awful grip. The blood is pouring from the vein in my temple, gradually sapping my strength. A sudden thought, such as is said to come to the dying, lightning-like, illumines my mind. One chance remains. Bracing my feet against the heavy table I steadily force his head toward the fireplace. He struggles desperately. The grip on my throat weakens a little. Slowly, slowly, with teeth set and every muscle strained, nearer, nearer, inch by inch, while his fiendish eyes gleam now with terror as well as rage, I force his head into the ashes lying in the unused fireplace; now the top of his head reaches them; now they are falling over his brow; now his nostrils are in them; he holds his breath; suddenly he is forced to inhale them; struggling, writhing, he opens his eyes, only to be blinded; another breath: he is losing his strength; his grip on my throat relaxes; he breathes once more; strangling, choking, coughing weakly; and now he is silent; he has fainted, lying in the ashes.

      My name is called at the window. Mr. Birch has come across the roofs and raised it. He implores me to leave the room instantly. The blows upon the door are redoubled in force. The upper bolt is broken. In a moment more the door will give way. I arise, snatch the statement from the table and give a final glance at the form of Hector Arton Duvinage lying in the fireplace. There he lies in the ignominious position to which his unhallowed passions have brought him. Domineering, arrogant, haughty, overbearing, he came into my life. Defeated, crushed, overthrown, humbled in the dust, he passes out of it.

      With Mr. Birch's assistance I climbed through the window as the door was giving way, and went slowly to my apartments. I briefly narrated to him the events of the evening, gave him Eudora's address and then, overcome by the loss of blood, I fell unconscious.

      When I became fully sensible several days had passed away. Eudora was sitting by my side. She called her mother from an adjoining room and introduced me to her. Eudora knew of my struggle with Mr. Duvinage, and the statement he had made — the latter had been sealed in an envelope.

      "Yes, but soon we will open it," said I, "and then the dark clouds of mystery which have surrounded us will roll away."

      "I fear the contrary," she replied. "Who can tell what vile slanders concerning us the statement may contain?"

      "If this be your fear, Eudora, be mine, in trust and confidence, and let us read the statement when our honeymoon is waning. No villain's words can then mar our joy."

      She assented, and our wedding day was fixed for the following week.

      Mr. Duvinage had been led to a carriage on the day after our contest. It was reported that he was blind. His marriage to Miss Olive Darrell did not take place in London, at least, and the only news of him since received was an item in a newspaper, stating that he was living in retirement near Monaco.

      A month later, sitting in a cozy nook on the deck of an ocean steamer, homeward bound, I told anew to my wife the story of the struggle, and took the two packets from my pocket. I opened the small envelope first.

      I felt my heart almost cease beating as I recognized with what fiendish deliberation my murder had been planned. What could have been the motive for such deliberate diabolism? Eudora was silent. The vileness of this man was beyond the comprehension of her pure soul.

      I broke the seal of the large envelope which contained my double's statement.

      As I finished the statement I arose, crying out in horror at the diabolism of this confession, this unutterable baseness, this murderous malignity almost beyond human comprehension.

      Eudora was by my side.

      "From the deep pit of such a life, my dearest," she said, her pure, lustrous eyes looking into mine, "turn your thoughts to the heaven of love and peace which is yours, and remember this murderous criminal brought you and me together. Do we owe him nothing for that?"

      My eyes fell abashed at her words. Eudora is the good angel of my life. Let her gentle admonition end my story. As I look on her in all her matchless beauty, the hateful character of my cousin, Hector Arton Duvinage, grows dim in my mind, and I can even forgive my millionaire double.