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 Jerry, too!" For here was a body which I was sure was Jerry's and some one else possessed it. That some one must be the soul we'd called Keeban—Jerry and I. Here was Keeban who'd robbed Dorothy Crewe and thrown her in the street; here was Keeban who had shot Win Scofield for his insurance and had knocked me on the head when I called at Cheron Street; here was Keeban who had tried to kill, by poison gas, Strathon, Géroud and Teverson and the Sencort directors in their room. And here—in the sense, at least, that I felt him physically present—was Jerry, who had been brother of mine for twenty-five years. And his present purpose was to finish me.

"Well, Steve," he said, "You did a good job."

"All right, I guess," I replied.

"Damn good," he granted to me. "You got any idea of what you beat me out of?"

"No," I said, doing my best to stand up to him; and while I talked to him, I thought, "He warned me. He told me to do it. That wasn't Keeban, of course. Jerry had the body then. Jerry must come into him at times. Then Jerry knows and goes horrified at what Keeban does. Jerry himself sent me that warning to try to stop