For a moment Allingham's face was a study in bewilderment. He tried to
speak, but only succeeded in producing an absurd snigger. Then he tried
to laugh outright, and was forced into rapid speech. "Well, what did
I say? The whole thing is preposterous. I'm afraid, inspector, we've
troubled you for nothing. The fact is, somebody has been guilty of a
monstrous hoax."
"Look at the wig, look at the wig," interrupted Gregg, feverishly.
Allingham did so. Just on the edge of the lining there was an
oblong-shaped tab, with small gold lettering:--
W. CLARKSON. Wig-maker to the Seventh International.
"Well, well, it's what I said," the doctor went on, swallowing quickly,
"someone has--someone has--"
He broke off abruptly. Gregg was standing with his hands behind him. He
shook his head gravely.
"It's no use, doc," he observed, quietly, "we've got to face it."