nspector both discovered. And he was a wastrel and he went to
Australia. But he never came to the Red House on Tuesday afternoon. He
couldn't have, because he died (unlamented) three years ago. But there
was nobody who knew this, save Mark and myself, for Mark was the only
one of the family left, his sister having died last year. Though I
doubt, anyhow, if she knew whether Robert was alive or dead. He was not
talked about.

"For the next two days Mark and I worked out our plans. You understand
by now that our aims were not identical. Mark's endeavour was that his
deception should last for, say, a couple of hours; mine that it should
go to the grave with him. He had only to deceive Miss Norris and the
other guests; I had to deceive the world. When he was dressed up as
Robert, I was going to kill him. Robert would then be dead, Mark (of
course) missing. What could anybody think but that Mark had killed
Robert? But you see how important it was for Mark to enter fully into
his latest (and last) impersonation. Half-measures would be fatal.

"You will say that it was impossible so do the thing thoroughly enough.
I answer again that you never knew Mark. He was being what he wished
most to be--an artist. No Othello ever blacked himself all over with
such enthusiasm as did Mark. His beard was going anyhow--possible a
chance remark of Miss Norbury's helped here. She did not like beards.
But it was important for me that the dead man's hands should not be the
hands of a manicured gentleman. Five minutes playing upon the vanity of
the artist settled his hands. He let the nails grow and then cut them
raggedly. 'Miss Norris would notice your hands at once,' I had said.
'Besides, as an artist--'

"So with his underclothes. It was hardly necessary to warn him that
his pants might show above the edge of his socks; as an artist he had
already decided upon Robertian pants. I bought them, and other things,
in London for him. Even if I had not cut out all trace of the maker's
name, he would instinctively have done it. As an Australian and an
artist, he could not have an East London address on his underclothes.
Yes, we were doing the thing thoroughly, both of us; he as an artist, I
as a--well, you may say murderer, if you like. I shall not mind now.

"Our plans were settled. I went to London on the Monday and wrote him
a letter from Robert. (The artistic touch again.) I also bought a
revolver. On the Tuesday morning he announced the arriva