“Yes, that was the butler of Davenport’s patient,” Prescott remembered. “Well, it was one great game. And we’ve lost our man!”
And then Pennington Wise came.
“Taylor?” he said, looking curiously at the double. “Well, you are an exact duplicate!”
“What do you know about this?” cried Prescott, “Where’s Pollard?”
“Dead,” replied Wise, gravely. “I’ve just left your place, Taylor, and your precious half-brother shot himself there fifteen minutes ago.”
“Spill it,” commanded Prescott.
“I knew when I got the message from Pollard that the dupe would be here so I sent you, Prescott, while I went down to Taylor’s home. As I expected, Pollard was there. He made a full confession, seeing the game was up, and then eluding my watchfulness, he shot himself. I called the police in and I came up here to tell you.”
“I can’t get over it,” said Prescott, his eyes wide with wonder. “What a scheme!”
“Simple in the main,” said Wise, “but elaborate as to details. He left nothing unprovided for. He foresaw every condition and met it. The only thing, and the thing that proved his undoing was his forgetting that Mr Taylor had not enjoyed the same social advantages that he himself had.”
“What do you mean?” growled Taylor.