“I let him walk to his death, Petrie,” I heard dimly. “God forgive me—God forgive me!”
The words aroused me.
“Smith”—my voice came as a whisper—“for one awful moment I thought—”
“So did some one else,” he rapped. “Our poor sailor has met the end designed for me, Petrie!”
At that I realized two things: I knew why Forsyth’s face had struck me as being familiar in some puzzling way, and I knew why Forsyth now lay dead upon the grass. Save that he was a fair man and wore a slight mustache, he was, in features and build, the double of Nayland Smith!
CHAPTER V. THE NET
We raised the poor victim and turned him over on his back. I dropped upon my knees, and with unsteady fingers began to strike a match. A slight breeze was arising and sighing gently through the elms, but, screened by my hands, the flame of the match took life. It illuminated wanly the sun-baked face of Nayland Smith, his eyes gleaming with unnatural brightness. I bent forward, and the dying light of the match touched that other face.
“Oh, God!” whispered Smith.
A faint puff of wind extinguished the match.