ur of cultivated
voices, rose and fell through the faint, mysterious gloom. It was a
picturesque, a wonderful scene enough. Pale as a marble statue, with the
covert smile of the gracious host, Andrea Korust sat at the head of the
table, well pleased with his company, as indeed he had the right to be.
By his side was a great American statesman, who was travelling round the
world, and yet had refused all other invitations of this sort. He had
come for the pleasure of meeting the famous Dutch writer and politician,
Mr. van Jool. The two were already talking intimately. It was at this
point that tragedy, or something like it, intervened. A man's impatient
voice was heard in the hall outside, a man's voice which grew louder and
louder, more impatient, finally more passionate. People raised their
heads to listen. The American statesman, who was, perhaps, the only one
to realise exactly what was coming, slipped his hand into his pocket and
gripped something cold and hard. Then the door was flung open. An
apologetic and much disturbed butler made the announcement which had
evidently been demanded of him.

"Mr. von Tassen!"

A silence followed--breathless--the silence before the bursting of the
storm. Mr. von Tassen was the name of the American statesman, and the
man who rose slowly from his place by his host's side was the exact
double of the man who stood now upon the threshold, gazing in upon the
room. The expression of the two alone was different. The new-comer was
furiously angry, and looked it. The sham Mr. von Tassen was very much at
his ease. It was he who broke the silence, and his voice was curiously
free from all trace of emotion. He was looking his double over with an
air of professional interest.

"On the whole," he said calmly, "very good. A little stouter, I
perceive, and the eyebrows a trifle too regular. Of course, when you
make faces at me like that, it is hard to judge of the expression. I can
only say that I did the best I could."

"Who the devil are you, masquerading in my name?" the new-comer
demanded, with emphasis. "This man is an impostor!" he added, turning to
Andrea Korust. "What is he doing at your table?"

Andrea leaned forward, and his face was an evil thing to look upon.

"Who are you?" he hissed out.

The sham Mr. von Tassen turned away for a moment and stooped down. The
trick has been done often enough upon the stage, often in less time, but
seldom with more effect. The wonderful wig disa