Police Station to meet him and Chief Inspector Dawson. I
have a taxi-cab at the door, sir."

"Certainly," cried Cary; "in two minutes we shall be ready."

"Oh, no, we shan't," I remarked calmly, for I had moved to a position
of tactical advantage on the Marine's port beam. "We will have the
story here, if you don't mind, Dawson."

He stamped pettishly on the floor, whipped off his cap, and spun it
across the room. "Confound you, Mr. Copplestone!" he growled. "How
the--how the--do you do it?" He could not think of an expletive mild
enough for Mrs. Cary's ears. "There's something about me that I can't
hide. What is it? If you don't tell, I will get you on the Regulation
compelling all British subjects to answer questions addressed to them
by a competent naval or military authority."

"You don't happen to be either, Dawson," said I unkindly. "And,
beside, there was never yet a law made which could compel a man to
speak or a woman to hold her tongue. Some day perhaps, if you are
good, I will show you how the trick is done. But not yet. I want to
have something to bargain with when you cast me into jail. Out with
the story; we are impatient. If I mistake not, you come to us Dawson
triumphant. You haven't the air of a broken man."

"I have been successful," he answered gravely, "but I am a long, long
way from feeling triumphant. No, thank you, Mrs. Cary, I have had my
breakfast, but if I might trouble you for a cup of coffee? Many
thanks."

Dawson sat down, and Cary moved about inspecting him from every angle.
"No," declared he at last, "I cannot see the smallest resemblance, not
the smallest. You were thin; now you are distinctly plump. Your hair
was nearly white. Your cheeks had fallen in as if your back teeth were
missing. Your lower lip stuck out." Dawson smiled, highly gratified.
"I took in all my people at the office this morning," he said. "They
all thought, and think still, that I was a messenger from the
_Malplaquet_, which, by the way, is well down the river safe and
sound. Just wait a minute." He walked into a corner of the room, moved
his hands quickly between his side pockets and his face, and then
returned. Except for the dark hair and moustache and the brown skin,
he had become the Dawson of the Thursday afternoon. "It is as simple
for me to change," said the artist, with a nasty look in my direction,
"as it seems to be for Mr. Copplestone here to spot me. It will take a
day or two to get the dye out of