"Brother," said Berry gravely, "you've got it in one. I'm not accustomed to wearing garments such as these. I confess I feel strange in them. Most people who are not deformed would. If I hadn't got any thighs, if my stomach measurement was four times that of my chest, and I'd only one arm, they'd be just about right. As it is, short of mutilation----" "Can't you brace up the breeches a little higher?" said Daphne. "No, I can't," snapped her husband. "As it is, my feet are nearly off the ground." Seated upon the bed, Jonah rolled over upon his side and gave himself up to a convulsion of silent mirth. "The sleeves and the waistcoat," continued my sister, "are nothing. Adèle and I can easily alter them. What worries me is the breeches." "They'd worry you a damned sight more if you had 'em on," said Berry. "And if you think I'm going to wear this little song-without-words, even as amended by you and Adèle, you're simply unplaced. To say I wouldn't be seen dead in it conveys nothing at all." "My dear boy," purred Daphne, "be reasonable. It's far too late to get hold of anything else: it's the ball of the season, and fancy dress is _de rigueur_. I'm sure if you would only brace up----" With an unearthly shriek, Berry collapsed in my arms. "Take her away!" he roared. "Take her away before I offer her violence. Explain my anatomy. Tell her I've got a trunk. Conceal nothing. Only...." Amid the explosion of pent-up laughter, the rest of the sentence was lost. As soon as we could speak coherently, we endeavoured to smooth him down. At length-- "It's transparently plain," said Jonah, "that that dress is out of the question." Here he took out his watch. "Let's see. It's now three o'clock. That gives us just seven hours to conceive and execute some other confection. It shouldn't be difficult." "Now you're talking," said Berry. "I know. I'll go as a mahout. Now, that's easy. Six feet of butter muslin, four pennyworth of woad, and a harpoon. And we can lock the elephant's switch and park him in the rhododendrons." "Why," said Jonah, "shouldn't you go as Mr. Sycamore Tight? You're not unlike him, and the excitement would be intense." After a little discussion we turned the suggestion down. For all that, it was not without merit. Mr. Sycamore Tight was wanted--wanted badly. There was a price upon his head. Two days after he had landed in France, a large American bank had discovered good reason to believe that Mr. Tight had personally depleted its funds to the tune of over a million. Daily, for the last four days, the gentleman's photograph had appeared in every French paper, illustrating a succinct and compelling advertisement, which included a short summary of his characteristics and announced the offer of a reward of fifty thousand francs for such information as should lead to his arrest. The French know the value of money.