you can make a dash. The servants here are all right,
they'll think you are a friend run down from town to see me. I'll
arrange all that."

CHAPTER XXVIII

PEBBLEMARSH

At five o'clock next day, Jones, re-dressed by Kellerman in a morning
coat rather the worse for wear--a coat that had been left behind at the
bungalow by one of Kellerman's friends--and a dark cloth cap, took his
departure from the bungalow. His appearance was frankly abominable, but
quite distinct from the appearance of a man dressed in a grey flannel
tennis coat and wearing a Panama--and that was the main point.

Kellerman had also worked up a history and personality for the newly
attired one.

"You are Mr. Isaacson," said he.

"Here's the card of a Mr. Isaacson who called some time ago, put it in
your pocket. I will write you a couple of fake letters to back the card,
you are in the watch trade. Pebblemarsh is the nearest town, only five
miles down the road; there's a station there, but you'd better avoid
that. There's a garage. You could get a car to London. If they nail you,
scream like an excited Jew, produce your credentials, and if the worst
comes to the worst refer to me and come back here. I would love that
interview. Country policeman, lunatic asylum man, Mr. Isaacson highly
excited, and myself."

He sat down to write the fake letters addressed to Mr. Isaacson by his
uncle Julius Goldberg and his partner Marcus Cohen. As he wrote he
talked over his shoulder on the subject of disguises, alleging that the
only really impenetrable disguise was that of a nigger minstrel.

"You see, all black faces are pretty much the same," said he. "Their
predominant expression is black, but I haven't got the fixings nor the
coloured pants and things, to say nothing of a banjo, so I reckon you'll
just have to be Mr. Isaacson, and you may thank the God of the Hebrews I
haven't made you an old clothes man--watches are respectable. Here are
your letters, they are short but credible. Have you enough money?"

"Lots," said Jones, "and I don't know in the least how to thank you for
what you have done. I'd have been had, sure, wearing that hat and
coat--well, maybe we'll meet again."

They parted at the gate, the hunted one taking the white, dusty road in
the direction of Pebblemarsh, Kellerman watching till a bend hid him
from view.

Kellerman had in some mysterious way added a touch of the footlights to
this business. This confounded Kellerman wh