nose. Additions can be built on to a nose by skilful make up, but a large nose cannot be successfully reduced at a moment’s notice. Then again, he must be a fairly young man, certainly not over thirty-five. You see, we are getting somewhere. A man between thirty and thirty-five, of medium height and colouring, an adept in the art of make up, and with very few or any teeth of his own.”
“What?”
“Surely, Hastings. As the keeper, his teeth were broken and discoloured, in Paris they were even and white, as the doctor they protruded slightly, and as Savaronoff they had unusually long canines. Nothing alters the face so completely as a different set of teeth. You see where all this is leading us?
“Not exactly,” I said cautiously.
“A man carries his profession written in his face, they say.”
“He’s a criminal,” I cried.
“He is an adept in the art of making up.”
“It’s the same thing.”
“Rather a sweeping statement, Hastings, and one which would hardly be appreciated by the theatrical world. Do you not see that the man is, or has been, at one time or another, an actor?”
“An actor?”
