"And me!" cried the little man, again saluting his own cheek smartly. "You liar!" The big man's manner was insulting. Hubert felt he must resent it. "How dare you----" But the sentiment died down into his boots as the big man came at him with a sudden ferocity which seemed to cause the beating of his heart to cease. "How dare I! You dare to speak a word to me. Liar! I will kill you where you stand." "As for me," remarked the short man, affably, "I have this, and this." From one recess in his clothing he took a revolver. From another, a long, glittering, and business-like, if elegant, knife. "All these years I have not been able to make up my mind if I will shoot you like a dog, or stick you like a pig--which you are." "Gentlemen," explained Hubert, with surprising mildness, "I assure you you are under a misapprehension. The likeness between my brother and myself is so striking that our most intimate friends mistake one for the other." "For whom, then, did my sister mistake you this morning and to-night?" A light flashed upon Hubert's brain. "You mean Angel?" "You call her Angel! He calls her Angel!" "I hear," observed the little man. "If you will allow me to explain!" The big man made a gesture of refusal. But the little man caught him by the arm. "Let the liar speak," he said. The big man, acting on his friend's advice, let the--that is, he let Hubert speak. Availing himself of the courteously offered permission, Hubert did his best to make things clear. "I am not--as I would have told you before if you would have let me--I am not Cecil, but Hubert Buxton." The big man made another gesture. Again the little man restrained him. "We are twins. All our lives it has been difficult to tell one from the other. Of recent years, I understand, the resemblance between us has grown even greater. But the likeness is only skin deep. Cecil is the elder by, I believe, about thirty seconds. He is a rich man, and I am a poor man--bitterly poor." The big man spoke. "And you dare to tell me that you have been making love to my sister under a false name? Very good, I have killed a man for less. But I will not kill you--not yet----Is your handwriting as much like your brother's as you are?" "My fist is like Cecil's." "So! Sit down." Hubert sat down. "Take that pen." He took the pen. He dipped it in the ink. "Write, 'I promise to marry----'" "What's the good of my promising to marry anyone? Don't I tell you that I'm without a sou with which to bless myself?" "Write, my friend, what I dictate. 'I promise to marry----'" Hubert wrote it--"'Marian Philipson Peters----'" "And who the----something is Marian Philipson Peters?" "Marian Philipson Peters--Mrs. Philipson Peters, is my sister." It seemed to be a tolerably prosaic paraphrase of "Angel." Hubert, if the expression of his features could be trusted, appeared to think so.