His figure, hidden by the cloak, seemed to have shrunk to the size of Guerchard's.
He sat before a mirror in the wall of the lift, a make-up box on the seat beside him.

He darkened his eyebrows, and put a line or two about his eyes.

That done he looked at himself earnestly for two or three minutes; and, as he looked, a truly marvellous transformation took place: the features of Arsene Lupin, of the Duke of Charmerace, decomposed, actually decomposed, into the features of Jean Guerchard.
He looked at himself and laughed, the gentle, husky laugh of Guerchard.
He rose, transferred the pocket-book to the coat he was wearing, picked up the bomb, came out into the smoking-room, and listened.

A muffled roaring thumping came from the well of the lift.

It almost sounded as if, in their exasperation, Guerchard and Dieusy were engaged in a struggle to the death.