He must have known the report of
the gun would wake her up."
"But are there no clues or finger-prints or anything of that kind
here, Marigold?" asked the Chief.
"Not a finger-print anywhere," responded the other, "men like
Barney are born wise to the fingerprint business, sir."
He dipped a finger and thumb into his waistcoat pocket.
"Clues? Well, I've got one little souvenir here which I daresay a
writer of detective stories would make a good bit of."
He held in his hand a piece of paper folded flat. He unfolded it
and disclosed a loop of dark hair.
"There!" he said mockingly, straightening out the hair and
holding it up in the light. "That's calculated to set one's
thoughts running all over the place, isn't it? That piece of hair
was caught in the 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.
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