“Good!” chuckled Rayne softly. “I’m glad I managed to have a good squint at him on the street to-day. I reckon I’m getting it about as close as any one could hope to do it.” Actors, in making up, always put the wig on first, building up the face afterward, and Rayne did the work in the approved professional way. When everything seemed to be done, Rayne took a small mirror from his pocket and examined himself critically under the strong, shaded electric light. Then he walked over to a large mirror on the mantel and took a general view. He was entirely satisfied with himself in the large mirror, as well as in the small one. The nature of the Apache was so strange, and he had so much vanity in his composition, stern as he was, that just then he thought much more of the skill he had displayed in the art of make-up than of the fortune in gems he was fighting so hard to retain, in the very teeth of the detective who always had overcome him heretofore, Nick Carter. “I reckon I’m going to show my friend Carter that his luck has changed, so far as I am concerned,” he muttered. “If those men of his hadn’t turned up at that café last night, I’d have put him in such a condition that he would not have troubled me for a while, anyhow. I’m sorry my knife missed him.” There was a demoniacal snarl on the scoundrel’s lips. He was truly sorry that he had not been able to commit a foul murder when he aimed that stroke at the detective. As for compunction, that was a sentiment that never troubled him. “Well, my face is all right! Now for the clothes.” His tone was businesslike. He might have been engaged in an entirely legitimate task, so far as that was concerned. “I’ll have to hurry,” he went on. “There is always the off chance of somebody trying to get into this room. Even if I didn’t open the door--which I certainly would not do--that very fact might stir up suspicion. One never knows.” He bent over the supine figure of Jabez Portersham, huddled in the chair, and, deftly as a well-trained valet, took off the acting governor’s outer garments, leaving him in his underclothing. Deliberately, but without any waste of time, he put the suit of clothes on himself, finishing off with the collar and necktie, and wearing the watch and fob that was part of Portersham’s ordinary costume. “By Jove!” he chuckled, as he surveyed himself in the large mirror. “I am Jabez Portersham to the life. I don’t think I’ve overlooked anything. Oh, yes! Here’s something.” On the little finger of the unconscious man’s left hand was a large diamond solitaire ring. Rayne slipped it off and put it on his own little finger. It was loose for him, but he decided that it would stay on, and that no one would notice its being a little large. “These details are important, sometimes,” he muttered. “Everybody who knows this chap must have observed the ring. Besides, it is worth about a thousand dollars, I should think. I should be a fool not to take it with me.”