I called a coach. Madame arrayed herself in a fur cloak and crowned herself, curl-papers and all, with that atrocious hat from the window stock, a grotesque figure of a woman in all conscience. But I had nerved myself for the ordeal, and we drove away amid the jeers and laughter of the street crowd. In an hour we returned. Indiman was placidly smoking and working on his solitaire.
"You were successful, senor?"
"No, but I have hopes."
"Ah! Well, good-day, gentlemen. Come again."
"Of course there was nothing," said Indiman to me as we drove home. "I even went through every bandbox."
"Yet you have hopes?"
"Yes."
It was the second day following, and we were calling again upon L. Hernandez. There was the usual badinage about the curl-papers, and madame retired to her private apartments, carefully closing the door behind her.
"Now!" said Indiman. Hastily he pulled forward a cheval-glass, placing it upon a particular spot and tilting the mirror to a certain exact angle. When finally it was adjusted to his satisfaction, he motioned to me to come and look. In the mirror was plainly visible a vertically reversed reflection of L. Hernandez. Standing in front of a long dressing-glass in her bedroom, she deliberately removed her chevelure in its entirety and tossed it on the table. It was a wig, then; but I was hardly prepared for the secret that it had concealed—for the close-cropped head, with its straw-colored hair, was unmistakably that of a man.
"Look! look!" whispered Indiman.