The Man Who Was Two by Fred M. White

Barros pulled up his chair in a dull mechanical sort of way with a sensation as if he had suddenly lost the use of his legs. For the first time in his life perhaps this strong man was acquainted with fear. He had at the same time lost nothing of his benign aspect so that other people in the sunny dining-room saw nothing of the drama that was moving under their eyes. Moreover, the table chosen by Stephen Mallison was rather remote from the rest and in a secluded corner, so that Gilette could play the game that he had more or less invented with impunity.

Barros sat there gasping like a fish suddenly jerked out of its native element, looking from one to the other as if trying to grasp what it all meant. He knew, of course, that his plans had all gone wrong in some amazing, maddening fashion, he knew that he was face to face with one man whom he had practically murdered the night before, and that the victim of his other cunning conspiracy had come back from the grave, so to speak, to confront him. This was bad enough in all conscience, but there was worse to come.