would put in an
appearance punctually at ten. This meant rising not later than eight,
for she had her little household to put in order before she left.

It was the postman's insistent knocking at eight-thirty that woke her
from a dreamless sleep, and, half-awake, she dragged herself into her
dressing-gown and went to the door.

"Parcel, miss," said the invisible official, and put into the hand that
came round the edge of the door a letter and a small package. She
brought them to the sitting-room and pulled back the curtains. The
letter was type-written and was on the note-paper of a well-known firm
of perfumers. It was addressed to "Miss Olivia Cresswell," and ran:

"DEAR MADAME,--

"We have pleasure in sending you for your use a sample cake of our
new Complexion Soap, which we trust will meet with your approval."

"But how nice," she said, and wondered why she had been singled out for
the favour. She opened the package. In a small carton, carefully wrapped
in the thinnest of paper, was an oval tablet of lavender-coloured soap
that exhaled a delicate fragrance.

"But how nice," she said again, and put the gift in the bath-room.

This was starting the day well--a small enough foundation for happiness,
yet one which every woman knows, for happiness is made up of small and
acceptable things and, given the psychological moment, a bunch of
primroses has a greater value than a rope of pearls.

In her bath she picked up the soap and dropped it back in the tidy again
quickly.

"Don't use soap; bring it to office."

She remembered the message in a flash. Beale had known that this parcel
was coming then, and his "most urgent" warning was not a joke. She
dressed quickly, made a poor breakfast and was at the office ten minutes
before the hour.

She found her employer waiting, sitting in his accustomed place on the
edge of the table in her office. He gave her a little nod of welcome,
and without a word stretched out his hand.

"The soap?" she asked.

He nodded.

She opened her bag.

"Good," he said. "I see you have kept the wrappings, and that, I
presume, is the letter which accompanied the--what shall I say--gift?
Don't touch it with your bare hand," he said quickly. "Handle it with
the paper."

He pulled his gloves from his pocket and slipped them on, then took the
cake of soap in his hand and carried it to the light, smelt it and
returned it to its paper.

"Now let me see the letter."