"Not quite. Year'n a half, I'd say. Looks like a comedy character type. Wait'll I think. There ain't been so many of our customers playin' that kind of a part inside a year and a half. Let's see. Let's see." The old man paced up and down the office, muttering names under his breath. Suddenly, he stopped, snapping his fingers. "I have it," he said. "It must have been Morley who bought that wig. That's who it was! Harold Morley. He is playing in Shakespearian repertoire with Hamlin's company. Very fussy about his wigs. Has to have 'em just so. I remember he bought this one because he came in here about a month ago and ordered another just like it." "Why would he do that?" asked Mr. Hardy. Kauffman shrugged his shoulders. "Ain't none of my business. Lots of actors keep a double set of wigs. Morley's playin' down at the Crescent Theater right now. Call him up." "I'll go and see him," said Mr. Hardy, rising. "You're sure he is the man who ordered that wig?" "Positive!" replied Kauffman, looking hurt. "I know every wig that goes out of my shop. I give 'em all my pers'nal attention. Morley got the wig--and he got another like it a month ago. I remember." "Kauffman is right," put in the manager. "Morley has a very good account with us. If Kauffman says he remembers the wig, it must be so." "Well, thank you for your trouble," answered Fenton Hardy. "I may be able to see Mr. Morley in his dressing room if I hurry. It lacks about half an hour of theater time." "You'll just about make it. Glad to have been of service, Mr. Hardy. Any time we can do anything for you, just ask." "Thank you," and Fenton Hardy shook hands with Kauffman and the manager, then left the office, bound for the Crescent Theater. But the detective's hopes were not as high as they had been. He knew that Morley, the actor, was certainly not the man who had worn the wig on the day the roadster was stolen, for the Shakespearian company of which Morley was a member had been playing a three months' run in New York. It would be impossible for the actor to get away from the theater long enough for such an escapade, just as it was improbable that he would even try to do so. He presented his card to a suspicious doorman at the Crescent and was finally admitted backstage and shown down a brilliantly lighted corridor to the dressing room of Harold Morley. It was a snug little place, the dressing room, for Morley had fitted it up to suit his own tastes once it was assured that the company would remain at the Crescent for an extended run. There were pictures on the walls, a potted plant in the window overlooking the alleyway, and a rug on the floor. Seated before a mirror with electric lights at either side, was a stout little man, almost totally bald. He was diligently rubbing cold cream on his face, and when Fenton Hardy entered he did not turn around but, eyeing his visitor in the mirror, casually told him to sit down.