"I have not."
"I have. And not only about the same height but about the same build. The color of their hair is not dissimilar, and it really seems to have been ordained by fate that neither of them should wear mustache or beardeek."
"For the life of me I can't see your drift."
"The quality of your mental powers is not generally opaque, but you are remarkably dense at this moment. Dressed in each other's clothes, who is to distinguish them? Thus attired, my poor patient, whose features are battered beyond recognition, is carried back to the village as your luckless brother Gerald. As Gerald he is buried; the tombstone you lovingly erect over his remains proclaims it. Thus attired, he is carried back to the village as my patient, and I attend on him; no one else sets an eye upon him, though that risk might be run with safety. To-morrow comes a summons from his father, which I invent, to take him back to England. It grieves me to leave you in your grief, to leave the bereaved Emilia in her sorrow--but what can I do? Duty is my watchword, and I set it before me unflinchingly, and perform it. Without delay I return home, bearing my patient with me. Do you see the drift of my plan now?"
"I do," replied Leonard, setting his teeth close. "But will you be able to carry it out?"
"To the bitter end--till Gerald is dead."
They exchanged glances; the compact was made.
"If he should recover consciousness while we are changing their clothes!" whispered Leonard.
"Accept my professional word. The injuries he has received are so severe that he will not recover his senses until he is on the road to England. Not even then, perhaps. Trust me to manage him. I am responsible to no one, and there are potent drugs which I can use to any end I wish. As a matter of fact my poor patient's father is thousands of miles away, and will learn just as much as it pleases me to impart, and at the time I choose to impart it. What kind of friend am I?"
"The best of friends. Let us set to work."