I stood there breathless, staring in speechless wonder, and drawing back.
"I'm really very sorry!" I exclaimed. "I thought Sir Digby was here!"
The man who had risen from his chair and bowed when I opened the door was about the same build, but, apparently, a trifle younger. He had iron-grey hair and a pointed beard, but his face was more triangular, with higher cheek-bones, and eyes more brilliant and deeper set.
His thin countenance relaxed into a pleasant smile as he replied in a calm, suave voice:
"I am Sir Digby Kemsley, and you—I believe—are Mr. Edward Royle—my friend—my very intimate friend—are you not?"
"You!" I gasped, staring at him.
And then, for several seconds I failed to articulate any further words. The imposture was so utterly barefaced.
"You are not Sir Digby Kemsley," I went on angrily at last. "What trick is this?"
"No trick whatever, my dear Royle," was the man's quiet reply as he stood upon the hearthrug in the same position in which my friend had stood an hour before. "I tell you that my name is Kemsley—Sir Digby Kemsley."
"Then you assert that this flat is yours?"