characters each time which compelled him
largely to alter and modify his tone and accent."

"Yes," I said. "As the Mexican Seer, he had of course a
Spanish intonation. As the little curate, he was a cultivated
North-countryman. As David Granton, he spoke gentlemanly Scotch.
As Von Lebenstein, naturally, he was a South-German, trying to
express himself in French. As Professor Schleiermacher, he was a
North-German speaking broken English. As Elihu Quackenboss, he
had a fine and pronounced Kentucky flavour. And as the poet, he
drawled after the fashion of the clubs, with lingering remnants
of a Devonshire ancestry."

"Quite so," Dr. Beddersley answered. "That is just what I should
expect. Now, the question is, do you know him to be one man, or
is he really a gang? Is he a name for a syndicate? Have you any
photographs of Colonel Clay himself in any of his disguises?"

"Not one," Charles answered. "He produced some himself, when he was
Medhurst the detective. But he pocketed them at once; and we never
recovered them."

"Could you get any?" the doctor asked. "Did you note the name and
address of the photographer?"

"Unfortunately, no," Charles replied. "But the police at Nice showed
us two. Perhaps we might borrow them."

"Until we get them," Dr. Beddersley said, "I don't know that we can
do anything. But if you can once give me two distinct photographs of
the real man, no matter how much disguised, I could tell you whether
they were taken from one person; and, if so, I think I could point
out certain details in common which might aid us to go upon."

All this was at lunch. Amelia's niece, Dolly Lingfield, was there,
as it happened; and I chanced to note a most guilty look stealing
over her face all the while we were talking. Suspicious as I had
learned to become by this time, however, I did not suspect Dolly of
being in league with Colonel Clay; but, I confess, I wondered what
her blush could indicate. After lunch, to my surprise, Dolly called
me away from the rest into the library. "Uncle Seymour," she said
to me--the dear child calls me Uncle Seymour, though of course I am
not in any way related to her--"_I_ have some photographs of Colonel
Clay, if you want them."

"_You_?" I cried, astonished. "Why, Dolly, how did you get them?"

For a minute or two she showed some little hesitation in telling me.
At last she whispered, "You won't be angry if I confess?" (Dolly is
just nineteen, and remarkably pretty.)

"