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“And you never solved the mystery?” I queried.

“Well, not exactly,” returned Barker, gazing abstractedly before him. “Not exactly; but I have a theory, based upon the bitterest kind of experience, that I know what the trouble is.”

“You have a double?” I asked.

“You are a good guesser,” he replied; “and of all unhanged criminals he is the very worst.”

There was a strange smile on his lips as Carleton Barker said this. His tone was almost that of one who was boasting–in fact, so strongly was I impressed with his appearance of conceit when he estimated the character of his double, that I felt bold enough to say:

“You seem to be a little proud of it, in spite of all.”

Barker laughed.

“I can’t help it, though he has kept me on tenter-hooks for a lifetime,” he said. “We all feel a certain amount of pride in the success of those to whom we are related, either by family ties or other shackles like those with which I am bound to my murderous alter ego. I knew an Englishman once who was so impressed with the notion that he resembled the great Napoleon that he conceived the most ardent hatred for his own country for having sent the illustrious Frenchman to St. Helena. The same influence–a very subtle one–I feel. Here is a man who has maimed and robbed and murdered for years, and has never yet been apprehended. In his chosen calling he has been successful, and though I have been put to my trumps many a time to save my neck from the retribution that should have been his, I can’t help admiring the fellow, though I’d kill him if he stood before me!”

“And are you making any effort to find him?”

“I am, of course,” said Barker; “that has been my life-work. I am fortunately possessed of means enough to live on, so that I can devote all my time to unravelling the mystery. It is for this reason that I have acquainted myself with the element of London with which, as you have noticed, I am very familiar. The life these criminals are leading is quite as revolting to me as it is to you, and the scenes you and I have witnessed together are no more unpleasant to you than they are to me; but what can I do? The man lives and must be run down. He is in England, I am certain. This latest diversion of his has convinced me of that.”

“Well,” said I, rising, “you certainly have my sympathy, Mr. Barker, and I hope your efforts will meet with success. I trust you will have the pleasure of seeing the other gentleman hanged.”

“Thank you,” he said, with a queer look in his eyes, which, as I thought it over afterwards, did not seem to be quite as appropriate to his expression of gratitude as it might have been.

III

When Barker and I parted that day it was for a longer period than either of us dreamed, for upon my arrival at my lodgings I found there a cable message from New York, calling me back to my labors. Three days later I sailed for home, and five years elapsed before I was so fortunate as to renew my acquaintance with foreign climes. Occasionally through these years Parton and I discussed Barker, and at no time did my companion show anything but an increased animosity towards our strange Keswick acquaintance. The mention of his name was sufficient to drive Parton from the height of exuberance to a state of abject depression.

“I shall not feel easy while that man lives,” he said. “I think he is a minion of Satan. There is nothing earthly about him.”

“Nonsense,” said I. “Just because a man has a bad face is no reason for supposing him a villain or a supernatural creature.”

“No,” Parton answered; “but when a man’s veins hold blood that saturates and leaves no stain, what are we to think?”