range to me.

"I hope," I whispered primly to the constable, "that Mrs. Dawson is
sure he is her husband."

"She ought to be. Aren't you sure?"

"Not yet; I am not near enough to see properly. That Dawson, is not a
bit like those others whom I know."

"That Dawson! Those others! Is there more than one Chief Inspector
Dawson?" asked the man, wondering.

"I should say about a hundred," replied I, and left him gasping. I
fear that he now thinks that either I am quite mad or that Mrs. Dawson
is a pluralist in husbands.

I gave the Dawson family sufficient time to reach their home, and to
recover the power of speech, and then walked gravely to the door as if
I had just arrived. One becomes contagiously deceptive in the vicinity
of Dawson.

The stranger, who was the real undisguised Dawson, welcomed me to his
home. The house was a small one and the family kept no servant. I do
not know what income the Chief Inspector draws from the Yard, but am
sure that it is absurdly inadequate to his services. The higher one
rises, the less work one does and the more pay one gets--provided that
one begins more than half-way up the ladder. For those like Dawson who
begin quite at the bottom, the rule seems to be inverted: the more
work one does, the less pay one gets. I should judge my own ill-gotten
income at twice or three times that of Dawson--which even that
cautious judge, Euclid, would declare to be absurd.

He led me to the parlour, which was well and tastefully
furnished--Dawson has seen good houses--and we waited there while Mrs.
Dawson dished up the dinner. "Please sit there, Dawson, facing the
light," said I. "Let me have a good look at you." He complied smiling,
and I examined his features with grave attention. Dawson, the real
Dawson as I now saw him for the first time, is a very fair man. His
pale sandy hair can readily be bleached white or dyed a dark colour.
He uses quick dyes which can be removed with appropriate chemicals.
His hair and moustache, he told me, grow very quickly. His complexion,
like his hair, is almost white, and his skin curiously opaque. His
blood is red and healthy, but it does not show through. His skin and
hair are like the canvas of a painter, always ready to receive
pigments and ready also to give them up when treated with skill. I
began to understand how Dawson can make to himself a face and
appearance of almost any habit or age. He can be fair or dark, dark or
fair, old or young, young or