In a moment I had slipped off my coat and laid it on the chair.
Our complete transformation must have taken us about a quarter of an hour. With the exception of his patent leather shoes, which for absolute comfort were certainly half a size too small, Northcote's clothes fitted me with extraordinary accuracy. I put them on with a certain deliberation, enjoying the sensation of finding myself in really well-cut garments—an experience to which I had been a stranger for a good many years. When I had finished, I examined myself in the glass with no little satisfaction. As far as looks went, the deception was perfect.
Northcote, who had meanwhile arrayed himself in my own discarded blue suit, presented just as remarkable a change. He seemed to be the exact image of the reflection I was accustomed to see each morning in my lodging-house mirror.
Stepping to the table, I filled up the two liqueur glasses with a last taste of the Milan's excellent brandy.
"Here's to our lost selves!" I said.
Northcote drank the toast, and setting down the glass handed me his cheque-book and latch-key, which he had laid on the table in front of him. I put them away in my pockets with the notes.
Voltaire's last words came suddenly into my mind. "And now for the great adventure," I quoted gaily.
"We had better not go out together," said Northcote. Then he paused. "Good-bye," he added. "I don't suppose we shall meet again, unless there is really such a place as hell."
"I shall at least have a good chance of finding out first," I retorted.
I picked up the long fawn-coloured overcoat which lay on the sofa, and walking across the room, turned the key. Northcote stood where he was, his arms folded, watching me with his strange, mirthless smile.