"Mrs. Benker, sir. And you know it."
"Excuse me, I do not know it. The man who was your lodger, and whom you accuse me of being, is my brother."
"Your brother!" echoed the landlady, amazed.
"Yes, and a bad lot he is. Never did a hand's turn in all his life. I daresay while he was with you he kept the most irregular hours?"
"He did—most irregular."
"Out all night at times, and in all day? And again, out all day and in for the night?"
"You describe him exactly." Mrs. Benker peered into the clean-shaven face in a puzzled manner. "Your hair is black, your voice is changed, and only the eyes remain."
"My brother and I have eyes exactly the same. I guessed your mistake when you spoke. I assure you I am not my brother."
"Well, sir," said the woman, beginning to think she had made a mistake after all, "I will say your voice is not like his. It was low and soft, while yours, if you'll excuse me mentioning it, is hard, and not at all what I'd call a love-voice."
Grim as Franklin was, he could not help laughing at this last remark.