“His hair? I—don’t understand.”
“The color of it, I mean. When Mr. Benson sat before you under the table-lamp, didn’t you remark some—difference, let us say—in the way his hair looked?”
The man closed his eyes, as if striving to visualize the scene.
“No—I don’t remember.”
“A minor point,” said Vance indifferently. “Did Benson’s speech strike you as peculiar when he came downstairs—that is, was there a thickness, or slight impediment of any kind, in his voice?”
Leacock was manifestly puzzled.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he said. “He seemed to talk the way he always talked.”
“And did you happen to see a blue jewel-case on the table?”
“I didn’t notice.”
Vance smoked a moment thoughtfully.