I turned to Mr. John Smith--I should say to my old friend Douglas Howarth; who had been staring from me to Mr. Acrodato, and from Mr. Acrodato back to me, apparently wholly at a loss to understand the situation. Funny how opaque some men can be.

'Conscience,' says the bard, 'makes cowards of us all.' The Prince of Denmark wasn't quite so right as he supposed; but it had certainly succeeded in making, in a marvellously short space of time, a wreck of my dear old friend. Even the inexperienced eye could not fail to perceive that he had aged both morally and mentally. I was willing to bet a trifle that instead of scoring off the little game he had tried to play, he had passed from the prime of life to old age in the course of a single deal. He wasn't half the man who had called himself John Smith. He had acquired a new stoop; and that stoop was typical of all he had acquired. As he stared at me with astonished eyes it was clear that he had not so much control over his nerves as he would have liked to have had.

'As I just observed, I am glad to see you, my dear Douglas. My relatives and friends have not flocked round me as I had hoped they would. Am I to take it that this is a case of better late than never?'

'How did you get out?'

'How did I get out? Of what?'

'How did you get out of the coffin?'

'Out of----? My dear Douglas, aren't you well? Is that the explanation of your laggard step?'

'You are Babbacombe!'

I shrugged my shoulders.

'So that bee's in your bonnet. Very well, I am Babbacombe. I've been told it before; but no one has told me who Babbacombe is.'

'Don't--don't play any more tricks with me. Can't you see I've been nearly driven mad? Tell me; aren't you that--that devil?'

'Douglas, I have learned, to my pain, that you have lately not cut a very pretty figure. I am willing to excuse you on the charitable supposition that, as you say, you have been nearly driven mad. But do not let your madness go too far. Show some method in it, Douglas. Is it money you're in want of? If so, I've plenty, and am quite content that there should be some of it for you. What's the figure, man.'

'The figure?'

He looked as if his wits were wool-gathering. Going to a sideboard I poured out some brandy into a glass.

'Come, Douglas, swallow this. A pick-me-up may do you good. It strikes me that you ought to be in bed rather than abroad.'

He took the glass of brandy with a hand which trembled.

'It's a day of miracles.'

'Have you only just found that out? Surely you and I have reached an age at which we ought to know that wherever we turn, a miracle stares us in the face. What's the matter with you, my dear old chap?'

'Are you--are you Babbacombe?'

'My dear Douglas, I'm any one you please. Come, drink your brandy.' He took a sip; then put the glass on the table? 'Now tell me, what's the trouble? Is it money? If so, consider that I'm your banker and draw on me.'

Although I fancy that the sip he had taken had done him good, it still was sufficiently clear that the situation was beyond his comprehension; at which, on the whole, I wasn't surprised.

'Either, Leonard, you're a very remarkable actor, or you're a very remarkable man.'

'If you like we'll grant both hypotheses. And now may I ask you what you mean?'

'Should you desire it, I am quite willing to ignore the fact that I ever knew you as--anybody else, but I shouldn't like you to suppose that I'm an utter fool.'

'Howarth, you oblige me to adopt a tone with you for which I have no relish. Your words and manner convey an insinuation which I must ask you to explain. What am I to understand by what you have just now said?'

'Tell me, honestly. Have you not been masquerading as Montagu Babbacombe?'

'I have not. Nor, until I returned to the bosom of my family, was I aware that there was such a person in existence. Now tell me, in your turn, why are you so anxious to confound me with the gentleman in question?'

'If you never have assumed the name of Montagu Babbacombe, I beg your pardon.'

'In what dirty waters have you been paddling together? I was a pretty warm member when I was younger; I didn't expect to find you had become, with advancing years, the sort of man you apparently are. You have been attempting to do me out of my birthright; and now, as far as I understand, you are trying to do me out of my identity, too.'

He put both hands up to his head, as if it ached.

'I'm doing nothing of the kind; I only repeat that this is an age of miracles. When you meet Mr. Babbacombe--if you ever have so much good fortune'--his words had an ironical intonation which I couldn't but notice--'you'll understand the sense in which I use the words.'

'Douglas, what was there between this man and you?'

'I'll tell you. It will be at any rate a comfort to tell some one.'

He did tell me--the story with which I was even better acquainted than he was. The course of action which I should have to pursue loomed clearer and clearer as his tale proceeded. If I wished to stifle any remaining doubts which he might have, I should have to make an example of Mr. Howarth. Which I promptly proceeded to do.

I waited till he had reached the end of his pleasant little narrative, and then I let him have it. I fancy that the confession, which was good for his soul, was not received quite in the way he anticipated. In matters of this kind the world is full of disappointments. When it comes to confessing our sins, so few of us receive just the treatment we consider ourselves entitled to expect.

'Howarth, your attitude presents a curious psychological study. You tell your--I will flatter you by calling it amazing--story to me, as if you had been the sufferer. On the same line of reasoning the man who, having cut his father's throat, finds himself deserted by the wretched creature whom he has incited to assist him in his crime may pose as an injured martyr. Shall I inform you what I think? That you are a skulking thief and a cowardly scoundrel--that most pestilent type of blackguard whose one end and aim is to shift the onus of his own filthy deeds on to another's shoulders.'

He started; as if plain speaking was as unexpected as it was unwelcome. But I was only just beginning.

'According to your own statement you bribe a miserable mountebank to play a part in so hideous a fraud that I am conscious of a sensation of nausea when I think of it; and when with horrible fidelity the wretch has played his part, what do you do? Do you play your part? Lord, no! You're not that kind of man. Your one anxiety is to save your own leprous skin--double-dyed cur and coward that you are. He at least has trusted you; so you reward his faith by subjecting him to the most terrible death the mind can contemplate--you bury him alive. You have not even the courage of the common murderer. You crucify yourself for your own crime. See what a pallid, shrinking, stammering wretch you have become! Out! out! out! before I soil my hands by taking you by the throat, and throwing you into the street.'

Mr. Smith didn't seem as if he was enjoying himself. As I came towards him he seemed to shrink into a smaller and smaller compass, as if I were an avenging spirit before whose anger he had perforce to dwindle into nothing. I was wondering if I should play the farce right through, and really deposit him in the gutter, when the advent of two new-comers created a diversion. They were my affectionate brother, Lord Reginald Sherrington, and a rather incongruous companion, in the shape of Mr. Augustus FitzHoward. Fitz kept a little in the rear--as if not altogether at his ease as to the sort of reception he might receive; but the mere fact of his presence was proof enough that if I wished to keep myself free from such intrusions in the future, mercy was a quality against which, for the present at any rate, my heart must be steeled. This was a case when the downfall of vice must be carried to its legitimate conclusion.

So I gave Reggie the benefit of some candid criticisms on Mr. Smith.

'Reggie, you come at a convenient moment. You afford me an opportunity of closing, once for all, an incident of which I never wish to hear again. You see this nameless thing--this libel on our common manhood, whom, I am ashamed to reflect, I once regarded as my friend? With what sort of tale do you suppose he has been regaling me? He tells me that by the promise of a payment of one thousand pounds, he suborned some hard-driven wretch, who bore some real or imagined resemblance to myself, and induced him to feign death. Think of it! He persuaded the creature to simulate the greatest of all the mysteries, and to pretend to pass into the valley of the shadows. And when he lay in a coffin--actually in a coffin--think of it, ye gods!--waiting for this--this thing, to fulfil his part of the bargain, and release him, Mr. Howarth, deeming discretion to be the better part of honour, caused him to be fastened in his prison house and buried alive. What judgment would you pronounce upon so unique a gentleman?'

'Is this true?'

'Ask him. I tell you the story as I had it just now from his own lips.'

'Douglas, is this true?'

Mr. Smith put his fingers inside his shirt collar, as if its tightness worried him. It was some seconds before he spoke. Then it was in tones which were curiously unlike his own.

'Yes, it's true--all true.'

'And you are not Montagu Babbacombe?'

This was Reggie to me.

'You ask me that, knowing that Babbacombe was the name of the wretch who was his accomplice in the fraud of which you have just now heard--is that so?'

'It's a question of resemblance.'

'Are you asking me if I'm the wretch in question? Answer!'

'When you put it that way it seems impossible; I recognise that. But if you had seen his photograph----'

'Reggie, stop. I'll speak to you when we're alone. I have not your capacity for forgetting that we are brothers.' I turned to Fitz. 'The other day, sir, I presented you with the key of the street. Why are you here again?'

Reggie answered.

'He came with me.'

'Allow the man to speak for himself. Why are you here?'

Straightway Fitz began to fidget; and, also, to stammer.

'The plain truth is, sir, I mean, my lord, that the likeness is so striking that----'

'Well?'

For Fitz had stopped. When he continued he went off at a tangent----

'Of course I wasn't acquainted with what I've just now heard, or I should have known that your lordship couldn't possibly be the--the man I thought you were. But at the same time----'

'Well?'

For Fitz had stopped again.

'The fact is, my lord, I've become liable for Mr. Babbacombe in certain directions, and his disappearance puts me in a hole.'

'Well?'

'He went home to his wife the other day----'

'His wife?'

'Yes, my lord, his wife; without saying where he had come from, or where he was going to, or without mentioning a word about the liabilities I had entered into on his behalf. So I--I--I----'

Fitz stopped short in a stutterer's quagmire. I perceived that next time Mr. Merrett went home, Mr. FitzHoward's difficulties would have to be attended to.

'Well? Continue, sir, if you please.'

'My lord, after what has transpired all that remains for me to do is to apologise to your lordship for my intrusion, and to assure your lordship that it shan't occur again. So, begging your lordship's pardon, I wish you, my lord, good day.'

Fitz withdrew. I wondered what would be his mental condition when he found himself in the street. I rang the bell, pointing, when a footman appeared, to Mr. Smith, who sat crumpled up on a chair, as if his backbone was broken.

'Throw that thing into the street.'

As I had expected, Reggie interposed with an air of shocked surprise.

'Twickenham!' He moved towards his invertebrate friend. 'Come, Douglas, let me give you my arm.'

I struck in.

'Reggie, if you allow that man to touch you, you will go with him out of this house, and I will never speak to you again. More! By to-morrow morning he shall be standing in a felon's dock.' I fancy it was because, in spite of himself, my dear brother was influenced by what he saw upon my face, that he refrained from pressing on the other his friendly offices. I turned again to the footman. 'Do you hear what I say? Throw that thing into the street.'

Mr. Smith saved himself from that crowning humiliation--the pressing persuasion of a servant's hand. He got upon his feet.

'I can take myself away.'

He did. As he shuffled towards the door I pushed his shoulder, so that he stumbled into the footman's arms. As he cast a backward glance at me I was reminded of a humorous picture I had seen somewhere, representing St. Peter hurling a lost soul through the gates of Paradise. One could not but feel that the Hon. Douglas Howarth had brought his wares to an uncommonly bad market. Reggie moved as if to offer him assistance; but I stood in his way so that he could not pass.

When we were alone I endeavoured to explain to Reggie what was the kind of brother with whom Providence had blessed him.

'There are men who are content to let their brothers live as long as they conveniently can. You belong to the other class. Foster informs me that for years you have been assuring him that the time had really come for you to pick my bones. I can understand your disappointment at finding that, after assisting at my death and burial, I still persist in remaining alive. But I beg you, for your own sake, not to allow your disappointment to carry you too far. For I assure you that if it comes to my knowledge that you ever again attempt, by word, look, or sign, to associate me with the accomplice of that scoundrel's villainy, although I am your brother, I will chastise you physically, and I will take steps to publicly brand you as the blackguard I shall know you are.'

'Your threats are unnecessary. You speak as if I were to blame for what has happened. I deny it wholly.'

'Explain yourself--with care.'

'Look at the way in which you have treated me, You had no right to leave me for fifteen years in ignorance of whether you were dead or alive.'

'Is that your reason for confounding me with this man Babbacombe?'

'The man's your living image.'

'Is that your reason?'

'I say it is a reason; if you saw the man yourself, you'd know it was a reason.'

'I begin to perceive your point. You were of opinion that I could be that sort of man; an accidental resemblance convinced you that I was. I am obliged to you. I will instruct Foster to see that a sum of five thousand pounds is paid to you annually, and Gayer that you are not to enter this house again. I shall refuse to acknowledge you when we meet; nor will I stay in any room in which you are. Now go.'

'I am sorry that you should take this tone. If I have done you an injustice it has been unintentionally.'

'Go.'

'I am going. I only wished to apologise to you before I went. That's all.'

And my affectionate brother followed his friends.