“Here is the old man,” said he, holding out a heap of white hair. “Here he is⁠—wig, whiskers, eyebrows, and all. I thought my disguise was pretty good, but I hardly expected that it would stand that test.”

“Ah, you rogue!” cried Jones, highly delighted. “You would have made an actor, and a rare one. You had the proper workhouse cough, and those weak legs of yours are worth ten pound a week. I thought I knew the glint of your eye, though. You didn’t get away from us so easily, you see.”

“I have been working in that getup all day,” said he, lighting his cigar. “You see, a good many of the criminal classes begin to know me⁠—especially since our friend here took to publishing some of my cases: so I can only go on the warpath under some simple disguise like this. You got my wire?”

“Yes; that was what brought me here.”

“How has your case prospered?”