for me of men fulfilling the necessary qualifications—young men round about the age of thirty, of more or less nondescript appearance, and with a gift for playing character parts—men, moreover, who have definitely left the stage within the last three years.”
“Well?” I said, deeply interested.
“The list was, necessarily, rather a long one. For some time now, we have been engaged on the task of elimination. And finally we have boiled the whole thing down to four names. Here they are, my friend.”
He tossed me over a sheet of paper. I read its contents aloud.
“Ernest Luttrell. Son of a North Country parson. Always had a kink of some kind in his moral make-up. Was expelled from his public school. Went on the stage at the age of twenty-three. (There followed a list of parts he had played, with dates and places.) Addicted to drugs. Supposed to have gone to Australia four years ago. Cannot be traced after leaving England. Age 32, height 5 ft. 1012 in., clean-shaven, hair brown, nose straight, complexion fair, eyes gray.
“John St. Maur. Assumed name. Real name not known. Believed to be of cockney extraction. On stage since quite a child. Did
