“ ‘I’ll go and see him,’ I told the men. And that’s just what we’ll do, Frank and Joe, after a bite of supper.”
“You don’t think this actor is the thief, do you?” Frank asked in amazement. “How could he have gone back and forth to Bayport so quickly? And isn’t he playing here in town every night?”
Mr. Hardy admitted that he too was puzzled. He was certain Morley was not the man who had worn the wig on the day the jalopy was stolen, for the Shakespearean company had been playing a three weeks’ run in New York. It was improbable, in any case, that the actor was a thief.
The three Hardys arrived at Mr. Morley’s dressing room half an hour before curtain time. Mr. Hardy presented his card to a suspicious doorman at the Crescent, but he and his sons were finally admitted backstage and shown down a brilliantly lighted corridor to the dressing room of Harold Morley. It was a snug place, with pictures on the walls, a potted plant in the window overlooking the alleyway, and a rug on the floor.
Seated before a mirror with electric lights at either side was a stout little man, almost totally bald. He was diligently rubbing creamy stage make-up on his face. He did not turn around, but eyed his visitors in the mirror, casually telling them to sit down. Mr. Hardy took the only chair. The boys squatted on the floor.
“Often heard of you, Mr. Hardy,” the actor said in a surprisingly deep voice that had a comical effect in contrast to his diminutive appearance. “Glad to meet you. What kind of call is this? Social -or professional?”
“Professional.”
Morley continued rubbing the make-up on his jowls. “Out with it,” he said briefly.
“Ever see this wig before?” Mr. Hardy asked him, laying the hair piece on the make-up table.
Morley turned from the mirror, and an expression of delight crossed his plump countenance. “Well, I’ll say I’ve seen it before!” he declared. “Old Kauffman-the best wigmaker in the country -made this for me about a year and a half ago. Where did you get it? I sure didn’t think I’d ever see this red wig again.”