"And what possible advantage does your sister propose to derive from my promising, either in black and white or in any other way, to marry her? Does the lady propose to pay my debts, or to provide me with an income?" "Attend to me, my friend--write what I dictate." The big man laid his hand on Hubert's shoulder with an amount of pressure which might mean much--or more! Hubert looked up. The pressure increased. "Write it." The little man was standing on the other side of the unwilling scribe. He had his revolver in one hand, his knife in the other. "Write it!" he said. Up went Hubert's shoulders--he wrote it. The big man continued his dictation. "'Within three months after date.'" "What on earth----" "Write--'Within three months after date.'" "Oh, I'll write anything. I'll promise to marry her within three minutes--to oblige you." The big man examined what Hubert had written. "Very like!--very like indeed. So like Cecil Buxton's handwriting that I plainly perceive, my friend, that you are the prince of all the liars. Now sign it." He arrested Hubert's hand. "Sign it--'Cecil Buxton.'" Hubert glanced up. He dropped his pen. "Now I see!" "Pick up that pen." "With pleasure." He picked it up. "Sign it--'Cecil Buxton."' The big man spoke in a tone of voice which could not, truthfully, be described as friendly. "In other words--commit forgery." The tall man turned to the short one. "Eugene, who is to use your revolver? Is it you or I? I swear to you that if this scoundrel, this contemptible villain, does not make all the reparation to my sister that is in his miserable power, I will blow his brains out as he is sitting here." The short man smiled--not pleasantly. "Leave to me, my friend, that sacred duty--the sacred duty of being executioner. I have long had a little grudge of my own against Mr. Cecil Buxton. I have one of those little insults to wipe out which can only be wiped out by--blood. I have not doubted all the time that this is Mr. Cecil Buxton. I doubt it still less now that I have seen him write." "I swear to you----" The big man cut Hubert uncivilly short. He repeated his command. "Sign it--'Cecil Buxton.'" Hubert looked from one face to the other. He was conscious--painfully conscious!--that his was not a pleasant situation. He saw murder on the short man's face. He did not like the look of his revolver. He held it far too carelessly. That he was the sort of man who would entertain no kind of conscientious scruple against shooting him, to use his own words, like a dog, he felt quite certain. "Let me say one word?" he pleaded. The big man refused him even that grace. "Not one!" While Hubert hesitated, the pen between his fingers, there came a rapping at the door. CHAPTER IV. THE ARRIVAL OF THE OTHER TWIN. The cause of that rapping at the door was this.