suspected him--which, he told us at
Seldon, was against his first principles?"

A light dawned upon me again. But, warned by previous ebullitions,
I expressed myself this time with becoming timidity. "Charles,"
I suggested, "may we not here again have been the slaves of a
preconception? We thought Forbes-Gaskell was Colonel Clay--for
no better reason than because he wore a wig. We thought Elihu
Quackenboss wasn't Colonel Clay--for no better reason than because
he didn't wear one. But how do we know he _ever_ wears wigs? Isn't it
possible, after all, that those hints he gave us about make-up, when
he was Medhurst the detective, were framed on purpose, so as to
mislead and deceive us? And isn't it possible what he said of his
methods at the Seamew's island that day was similarly designed in
order to hoodwink us?"

"That is so obvious, Sey," my brother-in-law observed, in a most
aggrieved tone, "that I should have thought any secretary worth his
salt would have arrived at it instantly."

I abstained from remarking that Charles himself had not arrived at
it even now, until I told him. I thought that to say so would serve
no good purpose. So I merely went on: "Well, it seems to me likely
that when he came as Medhurst, with his hair cut short, he was
really wearing his own natural crop, in its simplest form and of
its native hue. By now it has had time to grow long and bushy. When
he was David Granton, no doubt, he clipped it to an intermediate
length, trimmed his beard and moustache, and dyed them all red, to
a fine Scotch colour. As the Seer, again, he wore his hair much
the same as Elihu's; only, to suit the character, more combed and
fluffy. As the little curate, he darkened it and plastered it down.
As Von Lebenstein, he shaved close, but cultivated his moustache to
its utmost dimensions, and dyed it black after the Tyrolese fashion.
He need never have had a wig; his own natural hair would throughout
have been sufficient, allowing for intervals."

"You're right, Sey," my brother-in-law said, growing almost
friendly. "I will do you the justice to admit that's the nearest
thing we have yet struck out to an idea for tracking him."

On the Saturday morning a letter arrived which relieved us a little
from our momentary tension. It was from our enemy himself--but most
different in tone from his previous bantering communications:--

"Saratoga, Friday.

"SIR CHARLES VANDRIFT--Herewith I return your dispatch-box,
inta