"I can't die--I am not fit to die!" he gasped. "John Huish, have mercy on me!" He shuddered as his adversary burst into a wild, hoarse laugh, and glared down at him; and truly his face was horrible, distorted as it was by passion, his brow smeared with blood from the wound in his head, and every vein knotted and standing out from his exertions. "He is mad!" the man muttered, as he saw the wild look in the other's eyes, and once more he shrieked aloud. "No, no! do not kill me!" he cried; "I cannot die!" "Not die!" cried Huish. "We shall see!" He tightened his hands now fiercely, when, with almost superhuman strength, the hunted man made a dying effort to wrench away his neck, shrieking out: "Huish--John Huish--mercy--do not kill--I am--your brother!" John Huish's hands relaxed their grasp, and a strange pang of fear and wonder combined struck through his brain. This man--his very self in appearance--his double--who knew his every act, his very life, and who had impersonated him again and again--was it possible? He stared down at the distorted countenance before him, his hands clawed and held a few inches from the prostrate man's throat, while doubt and incredulity struggled for the mastery. Then a curious smile crossed his face as his former thought re-mastered his beclouded brain. "Another wile--a trick--a lie, for a few more moments' breath," he cried, catching him by the throat once more. "It is a lie, and you are a devil!" "Mercy, help!" shrieked the other once more. "Huish--John--would you kill your brother?" "I have no brother." "I am the son of James Huish and Mary Riversley!" cried the other with starting eyes; and then, as the young man loosed him once more, he cried: "It is true, I call God to witness--it is true!" John Huish clasped his forehead with his hands, and tried to comprehend the fact thus suddenly brought before his clouded brain. "You--my brother?" "Ask in the other world!" yelled the other, as, with a stroke like lightning, he struck Huish full in the shoulder with a long keen-bladed knife, and, with a low groan, the young man fell over sidewise, and lay motionless amongst the heath. "Curse him!" hissed the man savagely, as he rose to his feet, and then sank down feeling faint and giddy. "I'm sick as a dog. I'm torn to pieces. Curse him, it was time to strike!" He wiped the blood from his hands, sought for and picked up the revolver that had fallen before the struggle began, and came back to think. "Not room for two John Huishes," he said, with a coarse laugh. "Shall I go on with the game?" he said at last. "Yes? No? Too late. I shall be hunted down for this. The Baillestone people must know of the jump from the train. He will be found here to-morrow. I must get back." He bent over the prostrate man for a few moments, gazing at his calm, placid face, which now in the twilight seemed sleeping.