coarsely clad as became his calling, with a coloured shirt protruding through

the rent in his tattered coat. He was, as the inspector had said, extremely

dirty, but the grime which covered his face could not conceal its repulsive

ugliness. A broad wheal from an old scar ran right across it from eye to chin,

and by its contraction had turned up one side of the upper lip, so that three

teeth were exposed in a perpetual snarl. A shock of very bright red hair grew

low over his eyes and forehead.


“He’s a beauty, isn’t he?” said the inspector.


“He certainly needs a wash,” remarked Holmes. “I had an idea

that he might, and I took the liberty of bringing the tools with me.” He

opened the Gladstone bag as he spoke, and took out, to my astonishment, a very

large bath-sponge.


“He! he! You are a funny one,” chuckled the inspector.


“Now, if you will have the great goodness to open that door very quietly,

we will soon make him cut a much more respectable figure.”


“Well, I don’t know why not,” said the inspector. “He

doesn’t look a credit to the Bow Street cells, does he?” He slipped

his key into the lock, and we all very quietly entered the cell. The sleeper

half turned, and then settled down once more into a deep slumber. Holmes

stooped to the water-jug, moistened his sponge, and then rubbed it twice

vigorously across and down the prisoner’s face.


“Let me introduce you,” he shouted, “to Mr. Neville St.

Clair, of Lee, in the county of Kent.”


Never in my life have I seen such a sight. The man’s face peeled off

under the sponge like the bark from a tree. Gone was the coarse brown tint!

Gone, too, was the horrid scar which had seamed it across, and the twisted lip

which had given the repulsive sneer to the face! A twitch brought away the

tangled red hair, and there, sitting up in his bed, was a pale, sad-faced,

refined-looking man, black-haired and smooth-skinned, rubbing his eyes and