ocket. Hastily she turned to the telephone again and continued, in a
voice which a quick ear would have detected was slightly hysterical.

Then she hung up the receiver and turned to Rolfe.

"But, monsieur, you were saying--"

Rolfe handed the handkerchief to its owner with a courtly bow which he
flattered himself was equal to the best French school.

"I picked this up off the floor, mademoiselle. It is yours, I think?"

"This?" Mademoiselle Chiron touched the handkerchief with a dainty
forefinger. "It is my handkerchief. I dropped it."

"It is very pretty," said Rolfe, with simulated indifference. "I suppose
you bought that in Paris. It does not look English,''

"But no, monsieur, it is quite Engleesh. I bought it in the shop."

"Indeed! A London shop?" inquired Rolfe, with equal indifference.

"The _lingerie_ shop in Oxford Street--what do you call it--Hobson's?"

"I'm sure I don't know--these ladies' things are a bit out of my line,"
said Rolfe, rising as he spoke with a smile, in which there was more
than a trace of self-satisfaction.

He felt that he had acquitted himself with an adroitness which Crewe
himself might have envied. He had made an important discovery and
extracted the name of the shop where the handkerchief had been bought
without--so he flattered himself--arousing any suspicions on the part of
the lady. Rolfe knew from his inquiries in West End shops that
handkerchiefs of that pattern and quality were stocked by many of the
good shops, but the fact that he had found a handkerchief of this kind in
the house of a lady who had abstracted secret letters from the murdered
man's desk, and had, moreover, discovered the name of the shop where she
bought her handkerchiefs, convinced him that he had struck a path which
must lead to an important discovery.

Mademoiselle Chiron followed Rolfe into the hall and watched his
departure from a front window. When she saw his retreating figure turn
the corner of the street she left the window, ran upstairs quickly, and
knocked lightly at the closed door.

The door was opened by Mrs. Holymead, who appeared to be in a state of
nervous agitation. Her large brown eyes were swollen and dim with
weeping, her hair had become partly unloosened, her face was white and
her dress disordered. She caught the Frenchwoman by the wrist and drew
her into the bedroom, closing the door after her.

"What did he want, Gabrielle?" she gasped. "What did he say? Has he come
abou