They stopped as John urged: “Look—this wig—it’s a wig. See, I am Jasper!”
He had snatched off the brown thatch. He stood expectant, a little afraid.
The president was startled, but he shook his head and sighed.
“You poor devil! Wig, all right. But I wouldn’t say that hair was much like Jasper’s!”
He motioned toward the mirror in the corner of the room.
John wavered to it. And indeed he saw that day by slow day his hair had turned from Jasper’s thin sleek blackness to a straggle of damp gray locks writhing over a yellow skull.
He begged pitifully: “Oh, can’t you see I am Jasper? I stole ninety-seven thousand dollars from the bank. I want to be punished! I want to do anything to prove— Why, I’ve been at your house. Your wife’s name is Evelyn. My salary here was—”
“My dear boy, don’t you suppose that Jasper might have told you all these interesting facts? I’m afraid the worry of this has—pardon me if I’m frank, but I’m afraid it’s turned your head a little, John.”
“There isn’t any John! There isn’t! There isn’t!”
“I’d believe that a little more easily if I hadn’t met you before Jasper disappeared.”