"False," interposed Carrados. "The teeth--not the statement."

"Possibly," admitted Mr. Carlyle. "I am not a dental expert and I had
no opportunity of examining Mr. Parkinson's mouth in detail. But what
is the drift of all this?"

"His clothes?"

"Oh, just the ordinary evening dress of a valet. There is not much
room for variety in that."

"You noticed, in fact, nothing special by which Parkinson could be
identified?"

"Well, he wore an unusually broad gold ring on the little finger of
the left hand."

"But that is removable. And yet Parkinson has an ineradicable mole--a
small one, I admit--on his chin. And you a human sleuth-hound. Oh,
Louis!"

"At all events," retorted Carlyle, writhing a little under this
good-humoured satire, although it was easy enough to see in it
Carrados's affectionate intention--"at all events, I dare say I can
give as good a description of Parkinson as he can give of me."

"That is what we are going to test. Ring the bell again."

"Seriously?"