"To put it plainly," he said, "I must disappear. If I stay in London under my own name I shall certainly be killed. It may be a matter of days or weeks, or even months—that will depend on myself; but the end is sure and quite unavoidable."
I poured myself out a glass of brandy and held it up to the light. "The situation," I observed, "has at least the merit of being a simple one."
The same cold smile flickered across his lips. "It is not quite as simple as it seems. The gentlemen who are so anxious to accelerate my passage to heaven are doing me the honour of paying me a very close and intelligent attention. I might possibly be able to avoid them,—to-night, for instance, I believe I have done so,—but whether I could get out of the country alive is a very open question."
"Ah!" I muttered. Light was beginning to dawn on me.
He nodded, as though answering an unspoken question. "Yes," he said; "the thought struck me the moment I caught sight of you under the lamp. If I were a believer in the supernatural, I should say you had been sent by the Devil. I can't think of any other power that would be particularly anxious to assist me."
"Well," I said lightly, "if the Devil sent me, I am at least indebted to him for a good supper. What is it you want me to do?"
He paused again. Then, very slowly, he made his amazing suggestion—the words dropping from his lips with an almost fierce intensity.
"I want you to take my place in the world. I want you to change clothes with me to-night and go out of this restaurant as Stuart Northcote."
I took a deep breath and bent forward, gripping the table with my hands.
"Yes," I said, "and what then?"