“You do?” Alec asked eagerly. “Who uses it?”
“That unfortunately I don’t appear to remember for the moment,” Roger confessed reluctantly. “Still, we ought to be able to find that out with a few discreet inquiries.”
He put the handkerchief carefully in his breast pocket, crumpling it into a small ball so as to retain as much of the scent as possible.
“But I think the first thing to do,” he continued, when it was safely bestowed, “is to examine this settee rather more minutely. You never know what you’re going to find, apparently.”
Without disturbing the cushions further, he began a careful scrutiny of the back and arms. It was not long before he found himself rewarded.
“Look!” he exclaimed suddenly, pointing at a place on the left arm. “Powder! See? Face powder, for a sovereign. Now I wonder what on earth that’s got to tell us, if we only know how to read it.”
Alec bent and examined the place. A very faint smudge of white powder stood out upon the black surface of the cloth.
“You’re sure that’s face powder?” he asked, a little incredulously. “How can you tell?”
“I can’t,” Roger admitted cheerfully. “It might be French chalk. But I’m sure it is face powder. Let me see, face powder just on the inner curve of the arm; what does that mean? Or talking about arms, perhaps it’s arm powder. They do powder their arms, don’t they?”
“I don’t know. Probably.”