Then the tobacconist returned to the perusal of the _Petit Journal_. Before he had skimmed over many lines, he looked up sharply and drew aside the red curtain. Yes! It was some one at last. The footsteps were hurried and yet hesitating--the gait of a person not knowing his whereabouts. And yet the man who entered the shop a moment later was evidently the same who had come to the citizen Jacquetot when last we met him. “Ah!” exclaimed the tobacconist. “It is you!” “No,” replied the other. “It is not. I am not the citizen...Morot--I think you call it.” “But, yes!” exclaimed the fat man in amazement. “You are that citizen, and you are also the Vicomte d'Audierne.” The new-comer was looking round him curiously; he stepped towards the curtained door, and turned the handle. “I am,” he said, “his brother. We are twins. There is a resemblance. Is this the room? Yes!” “Yes, monsieur. It is! But never was there such a resemblance.” The tobacconist mopped his head breathlessly. “Go,” said the other, “and get a mattress. Bring it and lay it on this table. My brother is wounded. He has been hit.” Jacquetot rose laboriously from his seat. He knew now that this was not the Vicomte d'Audierne. This man's method was quite different. He spoke with a quiet air of command, not doubting that his orders would be obeyed. He was obviously not in the habit of dealing with the People. The Vicomte d'Audierne had a different manner of speaking to different people--this man, who resembled him so strangely, gave his orders without heeding the reception of them. The tobacconist was essentially a man of peace. He passed out of a small door in the corner of the shop, obeying without a murmur, and leaving the new-comer alone. A moment later the sound of wheels awoke the peaceful stillness of the Rue St. Gingolphe. The vehicle stopped, and at the same instant the man passed through the little curtained doorway into the room at the back of the shop, closing the door after him. The gas was turned very low, and in the semi-darkness he stood quite still, waiting. He had not long to wait; he had scarcely closed the door when it was opened again, and some one entered rapidly, closing it behind him. Then the first comer raised his arm and turned up the gas. Across the little table, in the sudden flood of light, two men stood looking at each other curiously. They were so startlingly alike, in height and carriage and every feature, that there was something weird and unpleasant in their action--in their silence. “Ah!” said the last comer. “It is thou. I almost fired!” And he threw down on the table a small revolver. “Why have you done this?” continued the Vicomte d'Audierne. “I thought we agreed sixteen years ago that the world was big enough to contain us both without meeting, if we exercised a little care.” “She is dead,” replied the brother. “She died two years ago--the wife of Prangius--what does it matter now?” “I know that--but why did you come?”