The latter had seen the change in his countenance, and was prepared for the a.s.sault. With the activity of a panther he seized the coming hand, and throwing up his chest as he bent his spine like a bow, he tried to throw his adversary off, and then a deadly struggle began.

At this moment there was little difference in the physical power of the two adversaries. Huish, though, from his position had the advantage, one that he fought hard to keep. At first it seemed that he would lose it, for, having somewhat recovered from his horror and fear of death, the hunted man threw the strength he had been husbanding into his first effort, flung John Huish aside, and nearly escaped. His advantage, however, was but a matter of minutes, for Huish steadily held on, and he was never able to rise to his feet. The gra.s.s was crushed down, the purple heather broken, and the sand torn up, while, growing giddy and weak with his exertions, the old fear came back, and once more the man lay p.r.o.ne upon his back, gazing up into Huish's relentless eyes, and shuddered at the remorseless countenance he saw.

Then he raised his head slightly to try and look round for help, but he could see nothing but the setting sun, now glorifying the whole scene of peace made horrible by the life-and-death struggle that was going on.

He thought of the past, of his wife, and as a strange singing arose in his ears, it seemed to take the form of words imploring for mercy--the mercy that he would not show.

"I can't die--I am not fit to die!" he gasped. "John Huish, have mercy on me!"

He shuddered as his adversary burst into a wild, hoa.r.s.e laugh, and glared down at him; and truly his face was horrible, distorted as it was by pa.s.sion, his brow smeared with blood from the wound in his head, and every vein knotted and standing out from his exertions.

"He is mad!" the man muttered, as he saw the wild look in the other's eyes, and once more he shrieked aloud. "No, no! do not kill me!" he cried; "I cannot die!"

"Not die!" cried Huish. "We shall see!"

He tightened his hands now fiercely, when, with almost superhuman strength, the hunted man made a dying effort to wrench away his neck, shrieking out: "Huish--John Huish--mercy--do not kill--I am--your brother!"

John Huish's hands relaxed their grasp, and a strange pang of fear and wonder combined struck through his brain. This man--his very self in appearance--his double--who knew his every act, his very life, and who had impersonated him again and again--was it possible?

He stared down at the distorted countenance before him, his hands clawed and held a few inches from the prostrate man's throat, while doubt and incredulity struggled for the mastery. Then a curious smile crossed his face as his former thought re-mastered his beclouded brain.

"Another wile--a trick--a lie, for a few more moments' breath," he cried, catching him by the throat once more. "It is a lie, and you are a devil!"

"Mercy, help!" shrieked the other once more. "Huish--John--would you kill your brother?"

"I have no brother."

"I am the son of James Huish and Mary Riversley!" cried the other with starting eyes; and then, as the young man loosed him once more, he cried: "It is true, I call G.o.d to witness--it is true!"

John Huish clasped his forehead with his hands, and tried to comprehend the fact thus suddenly brought before his clouded brain.

"You--my brother?"

"Ask in the other world!" yelled the other, as, with a stroke like lightning, he struck Huish full in the shoulder with a long keen-bladed knife, and, with a low groan, the young man fell over sidewise, and lay motionless amongst the heath.

"Curse him!" hissed the man savagely, as he rose to his feet, and then sank down feeling faint and giddy. "I'm sick as a dog. I'm torn to pieces. Curse him, it was time to strike!"

He wiped the blood from his hands, sought for and picked up the revolver that had fallen before the struggle began, and came back to think.

"Not room for two John Huishes," he said, with a coa.r.s.e laugh.

"Shall I go on with the game?" he said at last. "Yes? No? Too late.

I shall be hunted down for this. The Baillestone people must know of the jump from the train. He will be found here to-morrow. I must get back."

He bent over the prostrate man for a few moments, gazing at his calm, placid face, which now in the twilight seemed sleeping.

"Poor devil!" he muttered; "I didn't want your life, but if, as you said, there was only room for one of us, why, you had to go! Brother, eh? Good-bye, dear brother Abel; I'm going to play Cain with a vengeance now; but my mark is on my arm, and not on my brow. Curse it, how it throbs and burns!"

With a low inspiration of the breath he hurriedly threw off his coat, and drew up his shirt-sleeve, for half was torn away in the struggle, and laying bare a great puckered scar upon his arm, it showed red and fiery, probably, though, from injury in the struggle.

"It is nothing, I suppose. One would think he had had the bite, and not I. Rabid as a maddened dog!"

He hastily drew on his coat, shivering with cold and horror.

"That would be horrible," he muttered, "to go mad like a dog! What a fool I am! I shall stay here till I am taken."

He glanced sharply round, and then started off at a steady walk, thankful for the coming shades of night, which would hide his disordered apparel.

His figure had hardly grown faint in the distance when a couple of young men crossing the common with rod and basket on their shoulders came upon the prostrate form of John Huish, as they chatted carelessly of the day's sport.

"Drunk, or a tramp?" said one.

"Both," said the other carelessly, as he glanced at the figure. "By Jove! Harry, there's blood. It's suicide!"

They hurried to the spot, and there was still light enough to display the tokens of the fierce struggle in the trampled turf, and the torn neck of the injured man's shirt.

"It's murder!" cried the first speaker. "Run for help!"

"Here it is!" said the other excitedly, as several figures were seen approaching; and he uttered a loud shout.

"What is it? Have you found them?" cried the first of the fresh party, panting.

"Found this man--he's dead."

"We've been hunting them for long enough," said the other. "Yes, that's one; here's his coat and waistcoat. Good G.o.d! is he dead?"

"I don't know," said the man, leaning over Huish's body. "He's got an ugly wound. I wonder who he is?"

"I know," said the man who had come up. "We have found his pocket-book and a letter. His name's Huish--John Huish--and the letter's from a doctor--Stonor, I think the name is."

"Never mind the name as long as it is a doctor!" cried the man who knelt by Huish. "Someone run for him. Here, who's got a flask?"

Volume 3, Chapter XVI.

NOT ROOM FOR TWO.

The hunted man's wife sat watching at her window hour after hour, as she had watched days and nights before--bitter, vindictive, dwelling on the cruelty, the blows and wrongs, from which she had suffered at this man's hands, and from the woman who played the part of mother to him--jealous tyrant to her.

"I have forgiven so much," she said, "and would forgive again--anything but this! So young, and handsome, and fair! He'll find her again, and bring her back, and then I may go. Why didn't he kill me outright?" she added bitterly, as she went slowly to the lamp, took it up, and held it so that she could gaze at her bruised face in the gla.s.s.

It was a handsome face, but bitterly vindictive now, as she gazed at the bruises and an ugly cut upon her lip.

"Better have killed me for letting her go. He hates me now. Yes," she said sadly; "better do it at once--better do it."

But she crossed the room again with a sigh to open the door and listen, habit mastering anger and bitterness, as a look of eagerness and longing such as had often been there before came into her face. It was the old anxious look with which she had watched for him who did not come. Then, by degrees, the look faded out, and her brow contracted as bitter thoughts prevailed.

It was getting late now, and she lit the candles in an automatic fashion, pausing at intervals to think. Then, going to the little sideboard, she took out a gla.s.s and the spirit decanter, half full of brandy, placing both on the sideboard ready before seating herself at the open window to listen. Nine o'clock struck, then ten, and the half-hour had chimed, but still he did not return.

There were a couple of figures, one at either end of the lane, but they did not attract her attention, and she still sat listening till a faint noise below made her start up and hurry to the door.