Number Twenty-one, his arms twisted behind him and bound, and his wrists hand-cuffed, stood motionless, while the dance of doom circled about him. The clapping, as it ended, sounded like the clapping of the men and women who sat, thirsty-lipped, beneath the guillotine.
"Number Twenty-one, your name has been given as Joseph Rogers, footman, dismissed for theft. Is that your real name?"
"No."
"What is your name?"
"Peter Death Bredon Wimsey."
"We thought you were dead."
"Naturally. You were intended to think so."
"What has become of the genuine Joseph Rogers?"
"He died abroad. I took his place. I may say that no real blame attaches to your people for not having realised who I was. I not only took Roger's place; I was Rogers. Even when I was alone, I walked like Rogers, I sat like Rogers, I read Rogers's books, and wore Rogers's clothes. In the end, I almost thought Rogers's thoughts. The only way to keep up a successful impersonation is never to relax."
"I see. The robbery of your own flat was arranged?"