To an inexperienced person, he bore little resemblance to the descriptions of the missing treasurer, and certainly he did not look like the manager of the Hattontown Observer, whose character he had assumed at the bank. As a matter of fact, his disguise was a rather effective one, in view of his inexperience, for he had been wise enough not to attempt too much.
A rather straggling little mustache, grayish, and too long, with a tendency to “weep,” had been transplanted to his upper lip, and proved to be unusually in keeping with his somewhat weak features. He wore a wig of an expensive sort, very difficult to detect, and the rest of his disguise consisted of a few inconspicuous lines, by which he had managed to change his expression to a surprising extent.
Cray made short work of the mustache and wig.
“Well, my friend,” he announced, “here we are! You didn’t look for us, did you? Here are Nick Carter and old Jack Cray, at your service.”
He shook his head as he contemplated the shrinking man.
“You’ve certainly a lot of misdirected ability in a number of ways, Simpson,” he remarked. “If you had exhibited half as much when you were holding down your job on the Chronicle and Observer, you might have made something of yourself. There’s a big streak of incompetency in you, though. Queer mixture you are—very.”
He paused for a moment, while Simpson quailed under his glance and looked the picture of misery.
“Got any more of the stuff buried, or did you dig it all up?” Cray demanded, jerking one stumpy thumb toward the place where his prisoner had been digging.
Simpson nodded despairingly.
“All in the car, eh?”