“These few hairs, Chick, to begin with,” said Nick, taking them from a scrap of paper on which he had placed them. “Mrs. Lord told me that Pauline Perrot had stolen a brush and comb. That suggested something to me.”
“What was that?”
“A hairbrush cannot be entirely cleaned of all the hairs it takes in among its bristles. I reasoned that Pauline Perrot decided that it was much easier to steal the brush than to clean it, and less dangerous than to leave it in her chamber. That set me to hunting for hairs on the rug and carpet. I found these. The devil always leaves a gapway open.”
“What about them?” Chick questioned, a bit perplexedly.
“Use my lens,” said Nick. “Observe that they are exceedingly dry, having none of the oily gloss and pliability of hairs fresh from one’s head. Notice, also, the tiny speck on the end of the longest one. It looks like the root of the hair.”
“I see.”
“But it is not,” Nick quickly added. “It is much too hard and brittle.”
“What do you make of it?”
“Instead of a root, Chick, it’s a speck of glue.”
“By Jove, that is significant,” Chick muttered. “In that case, then, Pauline Perrot probably wears a wig.”