The Shadow of the Dead Hand by Fred M. White

"Quite an honour," Lantary stammered as if overcome by his good fortune in meeting so distinguished a man. "Is this your first visit to the old country, sir?"

The individual called Rogers was understood to say that it was. He was absolutely and entirely at his ease and Lantary secretly admired the magnificent piece of acting that the Countess's friend was putting over for his benefit. Had he not known the identity that was concealed behind that benevolent mane of hair and that long, flowing beard, he would never have guessed that he was face to face with Felix Murdstone. In all his experience, it was the finest piece of make-up he had ever seen. Even the voice had changed, there was no trace of any of those little mannerisms peculiar to Murdstone, and certainly his bland glance held no suggestion of the knowledge that he was amiably vis-a-vis to the man who had brought his schemes to the ground and ruined the finest coup that he had ever made in the course of his nefarious career. He knew, of course, who Lantary was, but Lantary, on the other hand, was perfectly certain that Murdstone was secure in his disguise. At the same time, Lantary was well aware of the fact that Murdstone was being utterly deceived, and in that fool's paradise he would remain until the time came for the law to step in and interfere.