Once more the bag came into requisition, and from it Tom brought forth a light-coloured wig, with which was combined a beard and moustache precisely the same in colour and appearance as those of which Lionel had been so recently despoiled. With these he proceeded to decorate the head and face of the unconscious Creede. It was necessary to do this, because the bed was exactly opposite the cell door, and once or twice in the course of the night the warder on duty was instructed to open the little wicket, and see that everything was right with his prisoner. As Lionel lay in bed he was in full view of the warder, and it thus became requisite to “make up” Creede into some semblance of the real prisoner, it not being at all unlikely that the warder might come round and take his usual look within a few minutes of the departure of Tom and Lionel.
When the wig, beard, and moustache had been duly arranged, and the bedclothes pulled close up round Creede’s neck, Tom stepped back as far as the door in order to study the general effect. It was highly satisfactory. When the gas was turned down to the minimum point at which it was allowed to burn during the night, no one, without close examination, could have told that the man lying on the bed was other than Lionel Dering.
Satisfied so far, Tom next turned to Lionel, who by this time had duly inducted himself into Creede’s garments. Here, also, the general effect was satisfactory. One reason why Tom’s choice had fallen on Creede was because he and Lionel were both about the same height and build.
Tom gave a few final artistic touches to the tout ensemble—arranging the frayed old black necktie, and the limp, dirty collar, after Creede’s own slovenly fashion—and finishing by putting into Lionel’s reluctant hands the law-clerk’s greasy and much-worn hat.
“Years ago,” said Tom, “when I amused myself with private theatricals, I little thought that my talent for ‘making up’ would ever be brought into such valuable requisition. You would almost deceive Hoskyns himself if you were to walk into his office, especially by gaslight.”
“And you would quite deceive him,” said Lionel. “He would take you for his ‘double,’ and think his time was nearly come.”
“There is one thing still to do,” said Tom. “Creede’s walk is rather a peculiar one. Now watch me, and try whether you can imitate it.”
In about three minutes Lionel was tolerably perfect. “You know what kind of a voice Creede has,” said Tom. “Should you be accosted by any of the warders as we go out, you must do your best to imitate it. And now I think we are ready for a start.”
He crossed over to the bed, to take another look at the unconscious Creede. He felt his pulse carefully, and then lifted up one of his eyelids and examined the pupil underneath.
“Let us hope that you have not given him an overdose of the narcotic,” said Lionel.