"What brings you here, Peterssen?"
"Business, Royce, business. I have a mission."
"You remind me," said Leonard, with an awkward smile. "When I was at the antipodes I thought the name of Royce an easy one to go by."
"But it was not your own."
"It was not my own."
"What I always admired in you," said Dr. Peterssen, "was your candor. The soul of truth, upon my honor! I used to ask of myself, 'Can Royce lie?' Excuse my sticking to the name till you supply me with another. Yes, I used to ask of myself, 'Can Royce lie?' There was but one invariable answer, 'No, he cannot.'"
The laugh with which he accompanied his words was so distinctly opposed to their sense that Leonard's face flushed, and Dr. Peterssen laughed still louder when he observed this sign of emotion. Of all the men whom Leonard had met in the course of his varied experiences Dr. Peterssen was the only one whom he was conscious he could not deceive. Peterssen spoke good English, with just a touch of foreign accent. He was by descent a Dane, and was a past-master in every species of craft and villainy. It would not have been easy to find his match in a scheme of evil cunning. Leonard was smooth-spoken, suave, and persuasive; Dr. Peterssen was brutally outspoken, calling a spade a spade, and, if it served his purpose, something worse--never something better.
"Don't be a fool, Peterssen," said Leonard. "You are lying yourself, and you know it."
"True, true, Royce--but really this is awkward, addressing a friend by a name he has no right to bear. What name do you pass by now?"
"My own," replied Leonard, convinced that Dr. Peterssen would bring him to the proof through other persons; "Paget."