grow, and then, if you pay attention to the lessons I shall give you, in a week or two, you’ll be this chap here,” and he tapped the photograph in his hand, “to the life.” 

 So saying he handed Desmond the photograph. It was the portrait of a man about forty years of age, of rather a pronounced Continental type, with a short brown beard, a straight, rather well-shaped nose and gold-rimmed spectacles. His hair was cut en brosse, and he was rather full about the throat and neck. Without a word, Desmond stretched out his hand and gathered up a sheaf of other photos, police photos of Mr. Basil Bellward, front face and profile seen from right and left, all these poses shown on the same picture, some snapshots and various camera studies. Desmond shook his head in despair. He was utterly unable to detect the slightest resemblance between himself and this rather commonplace looking type of business man. 

 “Now if you’d just step into the compartment at the end of the Pullman, Major,” said Crook, “you’ll find some civilian clothes laid out. Would you mind putting them on? You needn’t trouble about the collar and tie, or coat and waistcoat for the moment. Then we’ll get along with the work.” 

 The train rushed swaying on through the darkness. Desmond was back in the Pullman car in a few minutes arrayed in a pair of dark gray tweed trousers, a white shirt and black boots and socks. A cut-away coat and waistcoat of the same tweed stuff, a black bowler hat of rather an old-fashioned and staid pattern, and a black overcoat with a velvet collar, he left in the compartment where he changed. 

 He found that Crook had opened his tin box and set out a great array of grease paints, wigs, twists of tow of various colors, and a number of pots and phials of washes and unguents together with a whole battery of fine paint brushes. In his hand he held a pair of barber’s clippers and the tips of a comb and a pair of scissors protruded from his vest pocket. 

 Crook whisked a barber’s wrap round Desmond and proceeded, with clippers and scissors, to crop and trim his crisp black hair. 

 “Tst-tst” he clicked with his tongue. “I didn’t realize your hair was so dark, Major. It’ll want a dash of henna to lighten it.” 

 The man worked with incredible swiftness. His touch was light and sure, and Desmond, looking at his reflection in the glass, wondered to see what fine; delicate hands this odd little expert possessed. Matthews sat and smoked in silence 

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