He presented his card to a suspicious doorman at the Crescent and was finally admitted backstage and shown down a brilliantly lighted corridor to the dressing room of Harold Morley. It was a snug little place, the dressing room, for Morley had fitted it up to suit his own tastes once it was assured that the company would remain at the Crescent for an extended run. There were 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 cold cream on his face, and when Fenton Hardy entered he did not turn around but, eyeing his visitor in the mirror, casually told him to sit down.
"Often heard of you, Mr. Hardy," he said, in a surprisingly deep voice that had a comical effect in contrast to his diminutive appearance. "Often heard of you. Glad to meet you. What kind of call is this? Social—or professional?"
"Professional."
Morley continued rubbing cold cream on his jowls.
"Spill it," he said briefly. "What's it all about?"
"Ever see this wig before?" asked Mr. Hardy, tossing the red wig on the 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 wig-maker in the country—made that for me about a year and a half ago. That's the kind of wig I wear for Launcelot Gobbo in 'The Merchant of Venice.' Where did you get it? I sure didn't think I'd ever see that wig again."
"Why?"