he buckle of one of the straps with which Miss
Mackwayte was bound to the bed. Miss Mackwayte, I would point
out, has brown hair. Whose hair do you think that is?"

Desmond looked closely at the strand of hair in the detective's
fingers. It was long and fine and glossy and jetblack.

The Chief laughed and shook his head.

"Haven't an idea, Marigold," he answered, "Barney's, I should
imagine, that is, if he goes about with black ringlets falling
round his shoulders."

"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.

The Chief did not answer. He seemed to have relapsed into the
preoccupied mood in which Desmond had found him that morning.

"I was going to suggest, sir," said Mr. Marigold diffidently, "if
you had the time, you might care to look in at the Yard, and see
the prisoner. I don't mind telling you that he is swearing by all
the tribes of Judah that he's innocent of the murder of old
Mackwayte. He's got an amazing yarn... perhaps you'd like to hear
it!"

Mr. Marigold suddenly b