“Donno.”
“Is it Mr. Locke’s?”
“Donno.”
“Did Mr. Locke ever wear a wig? Come, you must know that?”
“Donno.”
And even threats of jail, or intimations of worse punishment could not move the Chinaman to admit any knowledge of the wig or even the slightest interest in it.
Nor did Dickson seem as much impressed as Glenn thought he would be.
He opined it might have been some sneak thief, who had donned a wig merely to disguise his own appearance, or it might have been a curiosity seeker, of whom there were plenty about. He could see no explanation of Locke’s presence there, for if he wanted to come to his own house as secretly as all that, he would have disguised himself—not attempted to look like himself.
But Glenn persuaded Hutchins to take the wig with him when he went to see Miss Cutler—for, he said, she could tell whether it’s really like Locke’s hair or not.
“It’s a mighty fine wig,” Glenn went on, “and it was made in Paris—see, here’s the maker’s mark.”
“That’s nothing,” Hutchins scoffed, “all good wigs are made in Paris. It’s a very expensive affair, too, which proves that it never was made merely to look like Locke on a midnight marauding expedition. That wig was made for a special customer, and for a special purpose. It has since fallen from such high estate, and is, most likely, the property of an artist’s model, who is posing as Hamlet or a Wandering Minstrel. By the way, like as not, it was worn here at the masquerade. Then when friend burglar
