When I awoke, level sun-rays were striking across the world.

Nothing had happened.

CHAPTER IX

"These Macedonians are a rude and clownish people that call a spade
a spade."--PLUTARCH.

Next morning, I took my car and began a systematic investigation of the
neighborhood. There proved to be few houses within reasonable distance
where such a woman as my lady could be lodged. However, I made my
cautious inquiries even where the quest seemed useless, resolved to
leave no chance untried. No better plan occurred to me than exhibition
of the pomander with a vague story of wishing to return it to a young
lady with red-gold hair. But nowhere did a native show recognition of
the top or the description.

On my way home I overtook a familiar, travel-stained buggy that inspired
me with a fresh disrespect for my own abilities. Why had I not put my
question to our rural mail deliverer in the beginning? Surely here was a
man who knew everyone and went everywhere!

The old white horse rolled placid eyes toward the car that drew up
beside it, then returned to cropping the young grass by the roadside.
The postman looked up from the leather sack open before him, and nodded
to me.

"Morning, Mr. Locke," he greeted. "Now let me get the right stuff into
this here box, an' I'll sort your family's right out for you. There's a
sample package of food sworn to make hens lay or kill 'em, for Cliff
Brown here, that's gone to the bottom of the bag. I don't know but
Cliff's poultry'd thank me to leave it be! Up it's got to come, though!"

"Will it make them lay?" I asked, watching the ruddy old face peering
into the sack.

"I guess it might, if Cliff told 'em they'd have to lay or eat it,
judgin' from the smell that sample's put in my bag."

"Not as sweet as this?" I suggested, and leaned across to lay the
pomander in his gnarled hand.

The familiar expression of acute, almost greedy pleasure flowed into his
face. His nostrils expanded with eager intake of the perfume that seemed
an elixir of delight. He said nothing, absorbed in sensation.

"Do you know of a lady who wears that scent?" I asked. "A lady with
bright fair hair, colored like copper-bronze?"

"Not I!" he denied briefly.

"No one at all like that--with hair warmer in shade than ordinary gold
color, and a lot of it?"

"No. Not around here, nor anywhere I've been! What do you call this
perfumery, Mr. Locke?"

"I have no idea," I answered, sharply disap