The collie’s forefeet clawed wildly in air as they were lifted momentarily off ground. And one of the flying paws brushed sharply across the forehead of the dead man.
There was a cry from Miss Gregg followed by a gasp from both men. The curved claws had chanced to catch in Creede’s thick tangle of hair that clung dankly to the forehead.
Under that momentary tug the hair gave way. A mass of it as large as a man’s hand came loose with the receding forepaw of the dog. And lo, the dead man’s forehead was as bald as a newborn baby’s!
The change wrought by the removal of the curling frontal hair made a startling difference in the lifeless face. It was Miss Gregg who exclaimed shudderingly:
“That’s not Clive! That’s—that’s Osmun Creede!”
“Good Lord!” babbled the doctor. “You’re—you’re right! It’s Oz!”
Vail, still clutching the frantically struggling collie, stared in silence. It was uncanny—the difference made by that chance removal of the ingenious toupée. Instantly the man on the ground before them lost his resemblance to Clive and became Clive’s twin brother.
Lawton, catching sight of an object which the shift of posture had caused to slide into view in the prostrate man’s upper coat pocket, drew forth a spectacle-case.
In view of the amazing identification the intruders wholly forgot for the moment Dr. Lawton’s ridiculously incredible claim that Creede had frozen to death on the hottest day of the year.
They had even forgotten the heat that poured down upon them in perilous intensity. They forgot everything except this revelation that the supposed Clive Creede, their friend, was Osmun Creede whom they had detested.