"Dave!" he said.
"Hello, Fred Martin," I said calmly.
He blanched. "Come in," he said hurriedly in a hushed voice.
I entered the familiar living room with its shelves lined with my books. Then I turned to face the man who was both Fred Martin and Orville Snyder.
"How did you find out?" he asked, his back against the door.
"Never mind that," I said. "Tell me your story. That's what I want to hear."
He did. All of it. It was a common enough one. He had been born Fred Martin. He had gone to college. One of his companions in college had been Orville Snyder. They had graduated together. Afterwards they had gone their separate ways, keeping in touch with each other by correspondence.
Then Orville Snyder had died in an automobile accident. He had no known relatives, and had made Fred the beneficiary of his life insurance. That was how Fred had known.
Two years later Fred had taken a risk. He saw a chance to make some money in a quick stock transaction. He "borrowed" some money from the company he was with. The transaction proved to be a swindle game worked on him. He was faced with exposure and jail.
He remembered Orville Snyder. In all probability no one knew he was dead. Records of that were in closed files in the insurance company, in the files of an undertaker and the city hall of a far-away city.