“Here is the old man,” said he, holding out a heap of white hair. “Here he is,—wig, whiskers, eyebrows, and all. I thought my disguise was pretty good, but I hardly expected that it would stand that test.”
“Ah, You rogue!” cried Jones, highly delighted. “You would have made an actor, and a rare one. You had the proper workhouse cough, and those weak legs of yours are worth ten pounds a week. I thought I knew the glint of your eye, though. You didn’t get away from us so easily, You see.”
“I have been working in that get-up all day,” said he, lighting his cigar. “You see, a good many of the criminal classes begin to know me,—especially since our friend here took to publishing some of my cases: so I can only go on the war-path under some simple disguise like this. You got my wire?”
“Yes; that was what brought me here.”
“How has your case prospered?”
“It has all come to nothing. I have had to release two of my prisoners, and there is no evidence against the other two.”
“Never mind. We shall give you two others in the place of them. But you must put yourself under my orders. You are welcome to all the official credit, but you must act on the line that I point out. Is that agreed?”
“Entirely, if you will help me to the men.”
“Well, then, in the first place I shall want a fast police-boat—a steam launch—to be at the Westminster Stairs at seven o’clock.”
“That is easily managed. There is always one about there; but I can step across the road and telephone to make sure.”