But Martin had already begun to slip off his coat. The bank notes were tightly clutched between his teeth, so he could not reply, but I was rather glad of that. I induced him to remove even his boots, and in five minutes I was to all appearances a hotel waiter. A false moustache gave me a general look of Martin, but a glance in the mirror showed me a bad fault, the long hair of my previous character, the old Shakesperean actor, fell upon my collar, while Martin's hair was cropped closely to his head. But I dared not exchange the wig I was wearing for another in Martin's presence, for fear of exciting his distrust, neither dared I remove my false bushy grey eyebrows.
Difficulties, however, are made to be surmounted. Whispering a word of warning in Martin's ear, I opened the door, and in a loud voice commanded him to procure me a cab. Martin cried out—"Very good, sir!" and I slipped into the passage, banging the door behind me. My trick was successful, the corridor was deserted. In two seconds I had pulled off my wig and substituted another, also I tore off my false eyebrows and stuffed them into my pocket, that is to say, into Martin's pocket. I then strode down the corridor and turned the corner with the brisk step and manner of a waiter going on an urgent message. My gentleman spy was again seated on the lounge that faced the elevator, and once more intrenched behind a newspaper.
He threw at me one quick glance over the edge of the journal, and his face vanished. I had just time to photograph his features on my mind—no more. Running down the stairs I reached the vestibule, which to my delight was thronged with guests. A moment later, having given the coffee room a wide berth, I passed through the open hall door and gained the street. A gentleman was standing on the footpath paying off a cab from which he had just alighted. I sprang into the vehicle and drove to Piccadilly Circus. A second took me to Marble Arch, and a third to Bruton Street. Feeling assured that I had not been followed, I slipped upstairs and into my room.
An hour later, Brown, Sir William Dagmar's discreet valet, stepped out of an omnibus before the General Post Office, letter in hand addressed to Sir Charles Venner. The letter, which was subscribed in printed characters, contained these words:—"To-morrow afternoon, at 4.30, inquire at Bolingbroke Hotel, Piccadilly, for Dr. Rudolf Garschagen. Bank of England notes alone acceptable. Dagmar II."
I slept that night at Bruton Street.
VI
A BATTLE OF WITS
At ten o'clock on the next morning, as I approached my master's house in Curzon Street, I saw Sir Charles Venner's brougham waiting before the door. I thought it highly probable that Sir Charles would require me to give an account of my absence from duty, whether he suspected me or not, for he was in the position of a man obliged by circumstances to suspect everyone, even his nearest and dearest friend. Nerving myself for the encounter, I assumed a dejected and lugubrious expression, and slowly mounting the steps, I inserted my latch-key in the lock. The hall was deserted, but I heard a mutter of voices in the ante-room, and thither I betook myself at once. "Best get it over quickly," was my thought.
The door was ajar, and peering through I perceived Mr. Sefton Dagmar and Sir Charles Venner in earnest converse. Mr. Dagmar's hat was lying upon the table. Sir Charles carried his in his hand. I rapped softly upon the panel and entered.