“I know what you would say,” Nick again interrupted. “But given the right type of man, Chick, the reverse subterfuge would be just as feasible—a man with an effeminate, mobile, and beardless face, a man with medium figure and consistent voice, together with the subtle art required for such an assumption. We have met just that type of man, Chick, both of us.”
“I cannot recall him,” Chick declared. “Whom do you mean?”
“The man of whom Wilhelmina Strickland has been living in fear since he, by this same artifice, made his escape from a prison hospital,” Nick replied. “The man of whom, though unidentified when she saw him in female attire, she felt an immediate aversion and dread—that is, upon first seeing Pauline Perrot.”
“H’m, I see!” Chick muttered.
“Mina Strickland’s sensitive nature and feminine intuition were more keen than her eyes,” Nick added. “They were far more keen than the eyes of Arthur Gordon. The man I mean, Chick, is a past master of the art of personal disguise and character assumption, and so clever and versatile a crook that for years he eluded the European police and——”
“Oh, I’ve got you,” Chick interrupted. “You mean Mortimer Deland.”
“Exactly.”
“He and Pauline Perrot are one and the same.”
“As sure as you’re a foot high.”
“This French letter, then, is a forgery?”