“In the west wing, some distance away from this part of the building. But come over here. I may want some help.”
There was a table and mirror against a wall across from the panel door, with two electric lights each side of the glass.
Chick turned on these lights without hesitation. He knew that the room was so arranged that the light would not show outside, even if anybody should happen to be watching, which was not at all likely.
“Howard Milmarsh was deeply interested in theatricals,” explained Nick. “He often had private performances in this house while his wife was alive, and he always took part in them himself. This was his dressing room. He used to ‘make-up’ here, and I suppose he had as fine a collection of grease paint and other articles needed in a theatrical dressing room as you could find anywhere in America to-day.”
“But what are you going to do?” asked Chick.
“I’m going to make myself look as much like the late Howard Milmarsh as I can,” was the reply. “He always wore a mustache and pointed beard as long as I knew him, and they were iron-gray toward the end of his life. Here are the very things in this drawer.”
Carter took some false beards and mustaches, and began to examine them, occasionally twisting one to bring it to the desired shape.
“Am I to take a hand in this?” asked Chick.
“You certainly are, and you must not waste time, either. We’ve both to be ready before midnight. You make-up like Howard Milmarsh, the present one. There is a full wardrobe in those closets along the wall. You can find anything you want. Just a plain sack suit is all you will need. But there’s a black-and-white check that Howard used to wear a great deal. Put that on. It’s distinctive.”
It was five minutes to twelve when Nick Carter surveyed himself critically in the mirror and decided he was enough like the father of the present Howard Milmarsh to pass for him. Then he looked at his assistant. He was much pleased, and he gave him the praise he felt he deserved.