"Have you seen anyone lately—here in the hotel—who might be Frankworth?"
"I can't say that I have, sir."
"Take Mr Slater now. Shave off his beard and moustache."
Parkinson began to look respectfully uncomfortable.
"Do you mean, sir"
"By an effort of the imagination, Parkinson. Close your eyes and picture Mr Slater as a clean-shaven man, some years younger, standing in the dock"
"Yes, sir. There is a distinct resemblance."
With this Max Carrados had to be satisfied for the time. Long memory was not Parkinson's strong point, but he had his own pre-eminent gift, and of this his master was to have an immediate example that outweighed every possible deficiency.
"Speaking of Mr Slater, sir, I noticed a curious thing that I intended to mention, as you told me to be particularly observant."
Carrados nodded encouragingly.
"I was talking to Herbert early this morning as he cleaned the boots. He is a very bigoted Free Trader, sir, and is thinking of becoming a Mormon, and I was speaking to him about it. Presently he came to No. 22's—Mr Slater's. They were muddy, for Mr Slater went out for a walk last night—I saw him as he returned. But the boots that Mr Slater put out to be cleaned last night were not the boots that he went out in and got wet, although they were exactly the same make."
"That is certainly curious," admitted Carrados slowly. "There was only one pair put out?"
"That is all, sir; and they were not the boots that Mr Slater has worn every day since I began to notice
