the elms, Nayland Smith appeared. I did not move. Even when he stood
beside me, I merely stared at him fatuously.

"I let him walk to his death, Petrie," I heard dimly. "God forgive me
--God forgive me!"

The words aroused me.

"Smith"--my voice came as a whisper--"for one awful moment I
thought--"

"So did some one else," he rapped. "Our poor sailor has met the end
designed for me, Petrie!"

At that I realized two things: I knew why Forsyth's face had struck me
as being familiar in some puzzling way, and I knew why Forsyth now lay
dead upon the grass. Save that he was a fair man and wore a slight
mustache, he was, in features and build, the double of Nayland Smith!



CHAPTER V

THE NET

We raised the poor victim and turned him over on his back. I dropped
upon my knees, and with unsteady fingers began to strike a match. A
slight breeze was arising and sighing gently through the elms, but,
screened by my hands, the flame of the match took life. It illuminated
wanly the sun-baked face of Nayland Smith, his eyes gleaming with