“A powder-paper. Women carry them,—they come in little books. That’s one of the leaves. They’re to rub on your face, and the powder comes off on your nose or cheeks.”
“Is that so? I never saw any before.”
“Lots of girls use them.” Norah’s clear, wholesome complexion refuted any idea of her needing such, and she spoke a bit scornfully.
“Proving once more the presence of what Friend Hudson calls a femmy,” I smiled.
“Yes; but these things have great individuality, Mr. Brice. This is of exceedingly fine quality, it has a distinct, definite fragrance, and is undoubtedly an imported article,—from France, likely.”
“Can they get such things over now?”
“Oh, pshaw, it may have been imported before the war. This quality would keep its odor forever! Anyway, don’t you believe we could trace the woman who used it and left it there? It must have happened yesterday, for the basket is, of course, emptied every day in that office.”
“Good girl, Norah!” and I nodded approval. “You are truly a She Sherlock! A bit intimate, isn’t it, for a woman to powder her nose in a man’s office?”
“Not at all, Mr. Old Fogey! Why, you can see the girls doing that everywhere, nowadays. In the street-cars, in the theater,—anywhere.”
“All right. How do you propose to proceed?”