In the dressing-room Roger discovered Esther, occupied in arranging flowers.
"Here's what you are looking for," she told him. "It's been moved to make room for my diet-kitchen."
She indicated a small safe almost hidden by a white-tiled refrigerator and an enamelled stand which bore a spirit-lamp and an array of shining saucepans.
Roger knelt on the floor and examined the knobs and dial. Then, raising his head, he sniffed the air, his nostrils detecting an elusive fragrance, exotic, vaguely familiar.
"There seems a good deal of scent about here," he remarked. "It isn't yours, is it?"
Somehow she didn't look as if she would use that particular perfume, or indeed any perfume, while in working clothes. She laughed and shook her head.
"Oh, no, it's not mine. It's Lady Clifford's. I could tell it anywhere now."
"I can't see where it comes from."
"I'll tell you. When I arrived I found one of her handkerchiefs on the floor behind the refrigerator. You wouldn't think an odour could be so lasting, would you?"
He busied himself with the combination.