He hastily donned the black wig, mustache and eyebrows, and the long Italian cloak.
Erica looked at him critically.
“Art thou not satisfied?” he asked.
“Not a bit,” she said, promptly. “In London every one would turn to look twice at such a dress as that, which is what you want to avoid. Besides, those eyebrows are so outrageous, so evidently false.”
She thought for a minute.
“My brown Inverness,” suggested Raeburn.
“Too thick for a summer night,” said Erica, “and” glancing from her father to Haeberlein “too long to look natural. I think Tom's ulster and traveling hat would be better.”
“Commend me to a woman when you want sound advice!” cried Haeberlein.
Erica went to search Tom's room for the ulster, and in the meantime Haeberlein showed his friend a paragraph in one of the evening papers which proved to Raeburn that the risk was indeed very great. They were discussing things much more gravely when Erica returned.
“The stations will be watched,” Haeberlein was saying.