The criminologist evinced a polite but not enthusiastic willingness to hear, and at once took an attitude of grave attention, which he kept during the entire recital, his face never changing; his gaze sometimes turned penetratingly on Bagley, sometimes dropping idly to the table.
“There's a young fellow in this town, a friend of mine,” Bagley went on, “of a literary turn of mind, and altogether what you'd call a queer Dick. He'd got down on his luck, for one reason and another, and was dead sore on himself. Now being the sort of man he was, understand, he took the most remarkable notion you ever heard of.” And Bagley gave what Larcher had inwardly to admit was a very clear and plausible account of the whole transaction. As the tale advanced, the medico-legal expert's eyes affected the table less and Bagley's countenance more. By and by they occasionally sought Larcher's with something of same inquiry that those of Barry Tompkins had shown. But the courteous attention, the careful heeding of every word, was maintained to the end of the story.
“And now, sir,” said Bagley, triumphantly, “I'd like to ask what you think of that?”
The criminologist gave a final look at Bagley, questioning for the last time his seriousness, and then answered, with cold decisiveness: “It's impossible.”
“But I know it to be true!” blurted Bagley.
“Some little transformation might be accomplished in the way you describe,” said the medico-legal man. “But not such as would insure against recognition by an observant acquaintance for any appreciable length of time.”
“But surely you know what criminals have done to avoid identification?”
“Better than any other man in New York,” said the other, simply, without any boastfulness.
“And you know what these facial surgeons do?”
“Certainly. A friend of mine has written the only really scientific monograph yet published on the art they profess.”