Mortimer was the first to recover his presence of mind. Crying
out to No. 13 to lock the door leading into the hall, he fumbled
for a moment at the table. Desmond caught the noise of a match
being scratched and the next moment the library was again bathed
in the soft radiance of the lamp.
Picking up the light, Mortimer strode across to the stranger.
"What do you want here" he demanded fiercely, "and who the
devil..."
He broke off without completing his sentence, drawing back in
amazement. For the rays of the lamp fell upon the pale face of a
stoutish, bearded man, veering towards middle age standing in
front of Mortimer. And the face was the face of the stoutish,
bearded man, veering towards middle age, who stood in the shadow
a few paces behind Mortimer. Each man was a complete replica of
the other, save that the face of the new arrival was thin and
haggard with that yellowish tinge which comes from long
confinement.
As Mortimer staggered back, the uninvited guest recoiled in his
turn. He was staring fixedly across the room at his double who
met his gaze firmly, erect, tense, silent. The others looked in
sheer stupefaction from one to the other of the two Mr.
Bellwards. For nearly a minute the only sound in the room was the
deep ticking of the clock, counting away the seconds separating
him from eternity, Desmond thought.
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