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 began to interest Desmond. His proposal was put forward so modestly that one would have thought the last thing he believed possible was that the Chief should acquiesce in his suggestion. Yet Desmond had the feeling that the detective was far from being so disinterested as he wished to seem. It struck Desmond that the case was more complicated than Mr. Marigold admitted and that the detective knew it. Had Mr. Marigold discovered that the Chief knew a great deal more about this mysterious 

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