Horning found himself staring down into a nightmarish, waxen face. A thin breath bubbled the lips. He leaped back, choking.
"Myrtle—!"
"Correct," his counterpart chuckled. "Or perhaps I should say—my Myrtle."
"Your Myrtle—?" A convulsive tremor shook Horning. "But I thought...."
"You thought I had a charming wife who held a fortune in her own name," the other retorted coolly. "The part about the fortune was true. As for the rest"—he shrugged—"well, you can see that I, too, married a wasp-tongued shrew named Myrtle—the coexisting counterpart of your own trouble."
With an effort, Horning stilled his trembling. "Then why lie to me?" he demanded in sudden, flaring anger. "What possible reason—"
"I was afraid to let you know. And ... I needed time to work out a plan." The sardonic lines about his alter ego's mouth etched deeper. "I've taken care of that detail now."
Horning drew back another step. "I don't think I care to hear about it," he clipped tightly.
"Oh, but you must!" his counterpart retorted. "You see, you're vital to it."
"I don't care for that, either."