exclamation of relief. It gave upon a large bare room, used by Maitland as
a trunk-closet. Here were stout leather straps and cords in ample measure.
"Mr. Snaith" selected one from them quickly but with care, choosing the
strongest.

In two more minutes, Maitland, trussed, gagged, still unconscious, and
breathing heavily, occupied a divan in his smoking-room, while his
assailant, in the bedroom, ears keen to catch the least sound from
with-out, was rapidly and cheerfully arraying himself in the Maitland
grey-striped flannels and accessories--even to the grey socks which had
been specified.

"The less chances one takes, the better," soliloquized "Mr. Snaith."

He stood erect, in another man's shoes, squaring back his shoulders,
discarding the disguising stoop, and confronted his image in a pier-glass.

"Good enough Maitland," he commented, with a little satisfied nod to his
counterfeit presentment. "But we'll make it better still."

A single quick jerk denuded his upper lip; he stowed the mustache carefully
away in his breast pocket. The moistened corner of a towel made quick work
of the crow's-feet about his eyes, and, simultaneously, robbed him of a
dozen apparent years. A pair of yellow chamois gloves, placed conveniently
on a dressing table, covered hands that no art could make resemble
Maitland's. And it was Daniel Maitland who studied himself in the
pier-glass.

Contented, the criminal returned to the smoking-room. A single glance
assured him that his victim was still dead to the world. He sat down at