"
The train rushed swaying on through the darkness. Desmond was
back in the Pullman car in a few minutes arrayed in a pair of
dark gray tweed trousers, a white shirt and black boots and
socks. A cut-away coat and waistcoat of the same tweed stuff, a
black bowler hat of rather an old-fashioned and staid pattern,
and a black overcoat with a velvet collar, he left in the
compartment where he changed.
He found that Crook had opened his tin box and set out a great
array of grease paints, wigs, twists of tow of various colors,
and a number of pots and phials of washes and unguents together
with a whole battery of fine paint brushes. In his hand he held a
pair of barber's clippers and the tips of a comb and a pair of
scissors protruded from his vest pocket.
Crook whisked a barber's wrap round Desmond and proceeded, with
clippers and scissors, to crop and trim his crisp black hair.
"Tst-tst" he clicked with his tongue. "I didn't realize your hair
was so dark, Major. It'll want a dash of henna to lighten it."
The man worked with incredible swiftness. His touch was light and
sure, and Desmond, looking at his reflection in the glass,
wondered to see what fine; delicate hands this odd little expert
possessed. Matthews sat and smoked in silence and watched the
operation, whilst the special ran on steadily Londonwards.
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