So on the morning of Friday, April 13, 1928, Marinus Bicknell Willett visited the room of Charles Dexter Ward at Dr Waite’s private hospital on Conanicut Island. The youth, though making no attempt to evade his caller, was in a sullen mood; and seemed disinclined to open the conversation which Willett obviously desired. The doctor’s discovery of the crypt and his monstrous experience therein had of course created a new source of embarrassment, so that both hesitated perceptibly after the interchange of a few strained formalities. Then a new element of constraint crept in, as Ward seemed to read behind the doctor’s mask-like face a terrible purpose which had never been there before. The patient quailed, conscious that since the last visit there had been a change whereby the solicitous family physician had given place to the ruthless and implacable avenger.

Ward actually turned pale, and the doctor was the first to speak. ‘More,’ he said, ‘has been found out, and I must warn you fairly that a reckoning is due.’

‘Digging again, and coming upon more poor starving pets?’ was the ironic reply. It was evident that the youth meant to shew bravado to the last.

‘No,’ Willett slowly rejoined, ‘this time I did not have to dig. We have had men looking up Dr Allen, and they found the false beard and spectacles in the bungalow.’

‘Excellent,’ commented the disquieted host in an effort to be wittily insulting, ‘and I trust they proved more becoming than the beard and glasses you now have on!’

‘They would become you very well,’ came the even and studied response, ‘as indeed they seem to have done.’

As Willett said this, it almost seemed as though a cloud passed over the sun, though there was no change in the shadows on the floor. Then Ward ventured: ‘And is this what asks so hotly for a reckoning? Suppose a man does find it now and then useful to be twofold?’

‘No’, said Willett gravely, ‘again you are wrong. It is no business of mine if any man seeks duality, provided he has any right to exist at all, and provided he does not destroy what called him out of space.’

Ward now started violently. ‘Well, Sir, what have ye found, and what d’ye want of me?’

The doctor let a little time elapse before replying, as if choosing his words for an effective answer.

‘I have found’, he finally intoned, ‘something in a cupboard behind an ancient overmantel where a picture once was, and I have burned it and buried the ashes where the grave of Charles Dexter Ward ought to be.’

The madman choked and sprang from the chair in which he had been sitting.

‘Damn ye, who did ye tell – and who’ll believe it was he after these two full months, with me alive? What d’ye mean to do?’

Willett, though a small man, actually took on a kind of judicial majesty as he calmed the patient with a gesture.