David Curtis rose from his seat by the window and stretched his cramped muscles. He had sat in the same position for what seemed to him interminable hours, waiting in watchful silence for the return of his mysterious visitor. But the remainder of the night had proved uneventful. The servants were astir early and he heard doors and windows being opened on the lower floor as they went about their work. He had about completed dressing when a knock sounded on his door, and he crossed the room and, turning the key, threw it open.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Fernando, with your breakfast, honorable sir.” The Filipino set the tray on the chair and, removing some magazines and books from a small table, put it in front of the window and then arranged the tray. Turning about he saw Curtis struggling to tie his cravat and went to assist him. “I get your cane, sir. The table—it is this way,” and he walked solicitously across the room with Curtis and pulled back his chair before the improvised breakfast table.
Curtis ate half-heartedly; he had little appetite. “You may pour out another cup of coffee,” he said, “and then you need not wait. But first,” his voice deepened, “why did you tell me you were Fernando?”
“I—I—” The Filipino, taken completely by surprise, came to a stammering halt.
“Just so, Damason.” Curtis smiled grimly. “Why are you masquerading as your twin brother?”
“He sick,” Damason passed one moist hand uneasily over the other. “I take his place; it is all the same.” He cast a quick, suspicious glance at Curtis. “How you know?”
“By your height,” calmly. “You will recollect that I rested my hand on your shoulder when you tied my cravat. Your brother must be two inches shorter than you. Your voices, however, are identical. Is Fernando very ill?”
“Oh, no, sir. He what you call,” hunting about for a word, “sick to his stomach. He drink soda and be all right.”
“If I can do anything, let me know. I am a physician.”