“The trial is going against you, and to-morrow morning will see you condemned to death. Are you prepared to die by the hangman’s hand for a crime of which you know nothing? Are you prepared to leave your young wife to the tender mercies of a world which will not fail to remember that her husband was a murderer? Live, man, live, if it be only for vengeance—if it be only to track out and hunt down the real murderer—if it be only to wipe the foul stain of blood from the name you bear—from the name which was borne by your father before you!”
“But why to-night?—why try to escape to-night?” pleaded Lionel. “The verdict has not yet been given. Who says that there is no chance of my acquittal?”
“I say it. Hoskyns says it. Tressil thinks it. You will be condemned to death to-morrow morning. After that, all chance of escape will be gone for ever. From that moment you will never be left alone till that most awful moment of all when you stand on the drop, pinioned, sightless, waiting for the bolt to fall. Dering, it must be to-night or never!”
“Bristow, I am in your hands—do with me as you will!” cried Lionel with emotion; and suiting the action to the word, he rose from the edge of the bed, and placed both his hands in those of his friend.
“That’s all I ask, old boy,” said Tom warmly. “Now sit down here, and obey my instructions, and don’t bother me with any questions.”
Lionel did as he was told, and sat down close under the gas light.
“There’s no help for it,” said Tom. “Both beard and moustache must be sacrificed.”
“So be it,” said Lionel philosophically. “They will grow again if need be.”
Next moment a pair of glittering scissors were playing round Lionel’s mouth and chin, and in two minutes the entire mass of yellow beard and moustache was swept clean away. This, of itself, was almost enough to disguise Lionel beyond ordinary recognition. The chin and upper lip were left stubbly on purpose. Creede’s face was nearly always stubbly—he rarely shaved more than once a week—and Lionel was now going to personate Creede. But Creede was very dark complexioned, while Lionel was just the opposite; so Tom’s next operation was to produce from his wonderful bag a small bottle of some kind of liquid, with which he proceeded to stain the hands, face, and neck of his friend. Next came a wig, which he had had specially made in London, and which was a very clever copy of the head of hair it was intended to simulate. It proved to be an excellent fit. With the fixing, by means of gum, of a scrap of ragged black hair under Lionel’s chin—which was Creede’s notion of a beard—the first part of Lionel’s disguise was completed.
“Take off your coat, waistcoat, and cravat, and induct yourself into Mr. Creede’s duplicates of those articles. You shudder at the thought. I do not wonder at it; but, for the time being, you must put all your finer feelings into your pocket. But first,” added Tom, diving again into his bag, “pull on this pair of old black trousers over your own, after which you can go on with the remainder of your dressing while I finish with Silenus here.”