"Professional."
Morley continued rubbing cold cream on his jowls.
"Spill it," he said briefly. "What's it all about?"
"Ever see this wig before?" asked Mr. Hardy, tossing the red wig on the table.
Morley turned from the mirror, and an expression of delight crossed his plump countenance.
"Well, I'll say I've seen it before!" he declared. "Old Kauffman—the best wig-maker in the country—made that for me about a year and a half ago. That's the kind of wig I wear for Launcelot Gobbo in 'The Merchant of Venice.' Where did you get it? I sure didn't think I'd ever see that wig again."
"Why?"
"Stolen from me. Some low-down egg cleaned out my dressing room one night. During the performance. Nerviest thing I ever heard of. Came right in here while I was doing my stuff out front, grabbed my watch and money and a diamond ring I had lying by the mirror, took this wig and a couple of others that were lying around, and beat it. Nobody saw him come or go. Must have got in by that window."
Morley talked in short, rapid sentences, and there was no mistaking his sincerity.
