“Kauffman, here,” said the manager, “is our expert. What he doesn’t know about wigs isn’t worth knowing.” Then, turning to the old man, he handed him the red wig. “Remember it, Kauffman?”

The old man looked at it doubtfully. Then he gazed at the ceiling.

“Red wig⁠ ⁠… red wig⁠ ⁠…” he muttered.

“About two years old, isn’t it?” prompted the manager.

“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.