"Come along," said Jerry: and he took us downstairs. And there he lay—himself in duplicate—dead on the floor. He had been stabbed through the throat.
I bent over him and, with Jerry himself bending beside me, still I got a shock at seeing him. "Two of you," I said over and over. "Two of you." I was still shaken, you see.
"Two of us!" said Jerry, and he touched that body so identical with his own. "The difference between us was this: when he was turned loose, he walked the wrong way across the Lincoln Park grass."
"Two of you!" I said and straightened, my arm on Jerry's shoulder. "See here! When we were boys, with our beds side by side, what was the book you kept underneath to read in the mornings?"
"The Wonder Clock," he told me.
"And the story you liked best of all?"
"'One Good Turn Deserves Another.'"
"Jerry!" I cried to him; and I stood there holding to him, staring down at Keeban.
"I didn't kill him," Jerry said to me. "I came here to get him; I meant to bag him. Christina came with him but she worked with me. She knew I was here. She meant to kill
