"When you play it?" repeated Harry, inquiringly.
"Oh," said the other. "I ought to explain. I'm starring in 'The Jail Bird'—the play that's on here this week. I have the title-role. It's a fad with me to get up my 'business' first-hand, and this institution is too good a chance to miss. It's mighty good press-agent stuff for the local papers, incidentally!" The lid of the tin box was a mirror, and propping this upright, he now busied himself with the facial make-up, applying a greyish grease-paint which obliterated the scar on the cheek and lent the requisite pallor, and deepening this with darker pencilled shades. In the midst of his labour he asked:
"Have you seen the piece?"
"No," said Harry, grimly. "Our business here interferes somewhat with our evening pleasures."
Something in the tone made the other look up quickly. Harry's cap had been pushed back when the visitor had entered. He had on, also, a spotless duck over-jacket which buttoned close up to the throat. Now the cap was pulled low on his forehead, and the jacket was open, revealing the tell-tale stripes beneath. The actor started.
"By Jove!" he ejaculated, in embarrassment. "I thought—I didn't know—"
"So I perceived," said Harry calmly. "Pray do not apologise, however. The atmosphere does not tend to develop over-sensitiveness. I must congratulate you on your appearance. The effect is really wonderful."
There was no sarcasm in his words: the illusion was marvellously carried. When the peaked cap was pulled over the other's forehead, a little to one side, Harry thought him highly likely to carry off his wager with the Deputy Warden.
At the moment the bell sounded—the signal to knock off work for the early supper—and John Stark rose hastily. "I'm off now for the lock-step," he said, with his hand on the door. "By the way, if these duds of mine are in the way, chuck 'em in some other room. I can dress anywhere."
The brogans clattered down the stair.