The locks that hung
down behind, over the collar of his coat, were a trifle lighter and
a trifle grayer than the black mass that covered the greater part
of his head. I examined it carefully. The more I did so, the more
the conviction grew upon me: he was wearing a wig. There was no
denying it!
A trifle less artistic, perhaps, than most of Colonel Clay's
get-ups; but then, I reflected (on Charles's principle of taking
nothing for granted), we had never before suspected Colonel Clay
himself, except in the one case of the Honourable David, whose red
hair and whiskers even Madame Picardet had admitted to be absurdly
false by her action of pointing at them and tittering irrepressibly.
It was possible that in every case, if we had scrutinised our man
closely, we should have found that the disguise betrayed itself
at once (as Medhurst had suggested) to an acute observer.
The detective, in fact, had told us too much. I remembered what he
said to us about knocking off David Granton's red wig the moment
we doubted him; and I positively tried to help myself awkwardly
to potato-chips, when the footman offered them, so as to hit the
supposed wig with an apparently careless brush of my elbow. But
it was of no avail. The fellow seemed to anticipate or suspect my
intention, and dodged aside carefully, like one well accustomed
to saving his disguise from all chance of such real or seeming
accidents.
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