“A pity,” murmured Mr. Robinson. “Still, I don’t know that it matters very much. It would have been pleasanter, of course, if we could have kept the proceedings on an amicable basis, but I always had grave doubts. A pigheaded old man, Freyder; but there are ways of overcoming pigheadedness.” He smiled genially; he still felt he wanted to hear the birds sing. “And now I will just make one or two alterations in my personal appearance. Then I will interview our friend.”
“Very good, Chief. By the way—the dynamo is installed, also the most modern brand of electric furnace. But, of course, I haven’t been able to do anything with regard to the chemicals as yet.”
“Of course not. You’ve done extremely well, my dear fellow—extremely well. He will have to tell me what chemicals he requires this evening, and you will go up to London first thing tomorrow and obtain them.”
With a wave of his hand he dismissed his subordinate, and then for over an hour he occupied himself in front of a mirror. Mr. William Robinson was being created. It was his first appearance in public, and so a little licence was allowable. There would be no one to point an accusing finger at his nose and say it had grown larger in the night or anything awkward of that sort. This was creation, pure and simple, giving scope to the creator’s artistic mind. He could make what he would. Once made, a series of the most minute measurements with gauges recording to the hundredth of an inch would be necessary. Each would be entered up with mathematical precision in a book kept specially for the purpose, along with other details concerning the character. But that came later, and was merely the uninteresting routine work. The soul of the artist need not be troubled by such trifles.
And since the soul of the artist was gay within him, he fashioned a genial old man with twinkling eyes and mutton-chop whiskers. His nose was rather hooked; his horn spectacles reposed on his forehead as if they had been absentmindedly pushed up from their proper position. His scanty grey hair was brushed back untidily (it was the ruthless thinning out of his normal crop with a razor that he disliked most); his clothes were those of a man who buys good ones and takes no care of them. And, finally, his hands were covered with the stains of the chemist.
At length he had finished, and having surveyed himself from every angle he rang the bell for Freyder, who paused in genuine amazement at the door. Accustomed as he was to these complete metamorphoses of his Chief, he never ceased to marvel at them.
“How’s that, Freyder?” demanded Mr. Robinson.
“Wonderful, Chief,” said the other. “Simply wonderful. I congratulate you.”
“Then I think I’ll go and see our friend—my dear, dear brother. Doubtless a little chat will clear the air.”
With a curious shambling gait he followed Freyder up the stairs to the top of the house. Then rubbing his hands together genially, he entered the room which Freyder had pointed to and closed the door behind him.
Professor Goodman rose as he came in and took a step forward.
“Are you the owner of this house, sir?” he demanded angrily.
“Yes,” said the other. “I am. I hope my servants have made you comfortable.”
“Then I demand to know by what right you dare to keep me a prisoner. How dare you, sir—how dare you? And where am I, anyway?”
With a sudden little gesture of weakness Professor Goodman sat down. He was still bewildered and shaken at his treatment, and Mr. Robinson smiled affably.
“That’s better,” he remarked. “Let us both sit down and have a friendly talk. I feel that one or two words of explanation are due to you, which I trust, my dear Professor, you will receive in a friendly and—er—brotherly spirit. Brotherly, because you are my brother.”
“What the devil do you mean, sir?” snapped the Professor. “I haven’t got a brother; I’ve never had a brother.”
“I know,” murmured the other sadly. “A most regrettable oversight on your parents’ part. But isn’t it nice to have one now? One, moreover, who will surround you with every care and attention in your illness.”
“But, damn you!” roared the unhappy man, “I’m not ill.”
Mr. Robinson waved a deprecating hand.
“I implore of you, do not excite yourself. In your weak mental state it would be most injurious. I assure you that you are my partially insane brother, and that I have taken this house entirely on your account. Could altruism go farther?”
Professor Goodman was swallowing hard, and clutching the arms of his chair.
“Perhaps you’ll say what you really do mean,” he muttered at length.
“Certainly,” cried Mr. Robinson benevolently. “It is for that express purpose that we are having this interview. It is essential that you should understand exactly where you are. Now, perhaps you are unaware of the fact that you died yesterday.”
“I did—what?” stammered the other.
“Died,” said Mr. Robinson genially. “I thought you might find that bit a little hard to follow, so I’ve brought you a copy of one of the early evening papers. In it you will find a brief account of the inquest—your inquest.”
With a trembling hand the Professor took the paper.
“But I don’t understand,” he said after he had read it. “For Heaven’s sake, sir, won’t you explain? I remember nothing from the time when I was chloroformed in my laboratory till I came-to in a packing-case. It wasn’t I who was blown up?”
“Obviously,” returned the other. “But the great point is, Professor, that everyone thinks it was. The cream of the scientific world, in fact, will attend the burial of somebody else’s foot, in the firm belief that they are honouring your memory. Whose foot it is you needn’t worry about; I assure you he was a person of tedious disposition.”
“But I must go at once and
