"I am afraid it does, Sir Thomas," he replied with a gulp, as I surveyed myself once more in the long mirror of my wardrobe door. I was about six feet high in my boots, fair, with a ruddy countenance and somewhat fleshy face--not gross I believe, but generally built upon a generous scale. That morning I had shaved off my mustache, had my hair arranged in a new way--that is to say, with an oily curl draping over the forehead--and I had very carefully penciled some minute crimson veins upon my nose. I ought to say that I have done a good deal of amateur acting in my time and am more or less familiar with the contents of the make-up box. [NOTE.--My master, Sir Thomas Kirby, has long been known as one of the handsomest gentlemen in society. He has a full face certainly, but entirely suited to his build and physical development. Of course, when he shaved off a mustache that was a model of such adornments, it did alter his appearance considerably.--HENRY PRESTON.] Instead of the high collar of use and wont, I wore a low one, permanently attached to what I believe is known as a "dicky"--that is to say, a false shirt front which reaches but little lower than the opening of the waistcoat. My tie was a made-up four-in-hand of crimson satin--not too new, my suit of very serviceable check with large side-pockets, purchased second-hand, together with other oddments, from a shop in Covent Garden. I also wore a large and massive gold watch-chain, and a diamond ring upon the little finger of my right hand. That was all, yet I swear not one of my friends would have known me, and what was more important still, I was typical without having overdone it. No one in London, meeting me in the street, would have turned to look twice at me. You could not say I was really disguised--in the true meaning of the word--and yet I was certainly entirely transformed, and with my cropped hair, except for the "quiff" in front, I looked as blatant and genial a bounder as ever served a pint of "sixes." Preston had left the room for a moment and now came back to say that Mr. W. W. Power had arrived. W. W. Power was the youngest partner in a celebrated firm of solicitors, Power, Davids and Power--a firm that has acted for my father and myself for more years than I can remember. Under his somewhat effeminate exterior and a languid manner, young Power is one of the sharpest and cleverest fellows I know, and, what's more, one that can keep his mouth shut under any circumstances. I went into the dining-room, hoping to make him start. Not a bit of it. He merely put up his eyeglass and said laconically: "You'll do, Sir Thomas"--not more than two years ago he had been an under-graduate at Cambridge! "You think so, Power?" He nodded and looked at his watch.