He examined it intently. Then he opened a drawer of his desk and produced the fragment of wig that the boys had found in the smashed car by the road. This he applied to a torn part of the wig itself. It fitted perfectly.
“It’s the wig all right,” he declared, looking up. “Where did you find it? By the smashed car?”
“No. Hidden in the bushes near the place where Chet’s roadster was found.”
Mr. Hardy whistled solemnly.
“Good work.” He turned the wig over and over in his hands, carefully examined it under a microscope, and then tossed it back on the desk.
“There aren’t so many wigs sold that one can’t trace them,” he observed. “This happens to be made by a small company that doesn’t turn out a great many wigs in a year. It’s a sort of side line with them.”
“How can you tell?”
“There’s a little mark on the inside that distinguishes the manufacturer. Just a trademark—hardly noticeable.”
“And we found these as well,” said Frank, handing over the coat and hat.
Mr. Hardy’s eyes opened wide.
“Well, well!” he exclaimed. “You have been busy, haven’t you?”
“They were all hidden in the same place.”
“And well hidden, too, I’ll warrant.”
“We were sure there must be clues of some kind around that car, so we searched every inch of the woods roundabout.”