"Read the tailor's label inside the pocket. See the
name. Also the address. 'J. Crocker. Drexdale House. Grosvenor
Square. London.'"
Lord Wisbeach picked up the garment and looked as directed. His
face turned a little sallower, but he still fought against his
growing conviction.
"That's no proof."
"Perhaps not. But, when you consider the reputation of the tailor
whose name is on the label, it's hardly likely that he would be
standing in with an impostor, is it? If you want real proof, I
have no doubt that there are half a dozen men working on the
_Chronicle_ who can identify me. Or are you convinced already?"
Lord Wisbeach capitulated.
"I don't know what fool game you think you're playing, but I
can't see why you couldn't have told me this when we were talking
after lunch."
"Never mind. I had my reasons. They don't matter. What matters is
that you are going to get out of here to-morrow. Do you
understand that?"
"I get you."
"Then that's about all, I think. Don't let me keep you."
"Say, listen." Gentleman Jack's voice was plaintive. "I think you
might give a fellow a chance to get out good. Give me time to
have a guy in Montreal send me a telegram telling me to go up
there right away. Otherwise you might just as well put the cops
on me at once. The old lady knows I've got business in Canada.
You don't need to be rough on a fellow."
Jimmy pondered this point.
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