“Barney?” echoed the detective. “Barney’s as bald as I am. Besides, if you saw his sheet, you’d realize that he has got into the habit of wearing his hair short!”
He carefully rolled the strand of hair up, replaced it in its paper and stowed it in his waistcoat pocket.
“It just shows how easily one is misled in a matter of this kind,” he went on. “Supposing Barney hadn’t got himself nabbed, supposing I hadn’t been able to find out from Miss Mackwayte her movements on the night previous to the murder, that strand of hair might have led me on a fine wild goose chase!”
“But, damn it, Marigold,” exclaimed the Chief, laughing, “you haven’t told us whose hair it is?”
“Why, Nur-el-Din’s, of course!”
The smile froze on the Chief’s lips, the laughter died out of his eyes. Desmond was amazed at the change in the man. The languid interest he had taken in the different details of the crime vanished. Something seemed to tighten up suddenly in his face and manner.
“Why Nur-el-Din?” he asked curtly.
Mr. Marigold glanced quickly at him. Desmond remarked that the detective was sensible of the change too.
“Simply because Miss Mackwayte spent some time in the dancer’s dressing-room last night, sir,” he replied quietly, “she probably sat at her dressing-table and picked up this hair in hers or in her veil or something and it dropped on the bed where one of Master Barney’s buckles caught it up.”
He spoke carelessly but Desmond noticed that he kept a watchful eye on the other.