“Is any effective make-up possible out of doors in ordinary daylight?” I asked.

“Oh, yes,” replied Thorndyke.  “But it must be on a totally different scale from that of the stage.  A wig, and especially a beard or moustache, must be joined up at the edges with hair actually stuck on the skin with transparent cement and carefully trimmed with scissors.  The same applies to eyebrows; and alterations in the colour of the skin must be carried out much more subtly.  Polton’s nose has been built up with a small covering of toupee-paste, the pimples on the cheeks produced with little particles of the same material; and the general tinting has been done with grease-paint with a very light scumble of powder colour to take off some of the shine.  This would be possible in outdoor make-up, but it would have to be done with the greatest care and delicacy; in fact, with what the art-critics call ‘reticence.’  A very little make-up is sufficient and too much is fatal.  You would be surprised to see how little paste is required to alter the shape of the nose and the entire character of the face.”

At this moment there came a loud knock at the door; a single, solid dab of the knocker which Polton seemed to recognize, for he ejaculated: 

“Good lord, sir!  That’ll be Wilkins, the cabman!  I’d forgotten all about him.  Whatever’s to be done?”

He stared at us in ludicrous horror for a moment or two, and then, snatching off his wig, beard and spectacles, poked them into a cupboard.  But his appearance was now too much even for Thorndyke—­who hastily got behind him—­for he had now resumed his ordinary personality—­but with a very material difference.

“Oh, it’s nothing to laugh at, sir,” he exclaimed indignantly as I crammed my handkerchief into my mouth.  “Somebody’s got to let him in, or he’ll go away.”

“Yes; and that won’t do,” said Thorndyke.  “But don’t worry, Polton.  You can step into the office.  I’ll open the door.”

Polton’s presence of mind, however, seemed to have entirely forsaken him, for he only hovered irresolutely in the wake of his principal.  As the door opened, a thick and husky voice inquired: 

“Gent of the name of Polton live here?”

“Yes, quite right,” said Thorndyke.  “Come in.  Your name is Wilkins, I think?”

“That’s me, sir,” said the voice; and in response to Thorndyke’s invitation, a typical “growler” cabman of the old school, complete even to imbricated cape and dangling badge, stalked into the room, and glancing round with a mixture of embarrassment and defiance, suddenly fixed on Polton’s nose a look of devouring curiosity.

“Here you are, then,” Polton remarked nervously.

“Yus,” replied the cabman in a slightly hostile tone.  “Here I am.  What am I wanted to do?  And where’s this here Mr. Polton?”

“I am Mr. Polton,” replied our abashed assistant.

“Well, it’s the other Mr. Polton what I want,” said the cabman, with his eyes still riveted on the olfactory prominence.