The Man Who Was Two by Fred M. White

Peggy had guessed correctly enough when she concluded that Barros was on his way to the little cottage at the bottom of the cliff, and she would have divined something of his errand if she could have caught a glimpse of his face as he strode down the hill until at length he came to his destination.

For here was not the Barros that she knew, not the man with features marked by smiling benevolence, and that calm good nature which outwardly, at any rate, was one of his outstanding characteristics. His face was heavy and scowling now, his dark eyes full of brooding suspicion. For, sooth to say, Julien Barros was frightened--for the first time in his life he was up against unseen forces, and he was all the more alarmed because he had not the remotest idea of the direction from whence the blow had come. More than once he had endeavoured to persuade himself that there was no danger at all, and that he was becoming the victim of his own over-heated imagination. For many years he had been planning this thing; he had worked up to it with the greatest possible patience, and had discounted failure at every turn.