His companion, subconsciously amazed at the young man's initiative, followed him to the desk. Methodically the latter, having removed the gag from Aaron Rodd's mouth, cut the bonds which held him, one by one. Harvey Grimm produced a small brandy flask and held it to his lips. The poet threw open a window and swung the chair round. Aaron Rodd groaned.
"He is coming to," Cresswell remarked hopefully.
He caught up a sheaf of newspapers and fanned the swooning man vigorously. Then he suddenly paused. Harvey Grimm followed the direction of his gaze. A sheet of violet-coloured note-paper was pinned upon the desk. The poet sniffed.
"What a delicious odour!" he murmured. "And how familiar!"
They both approached a little nearer. The sheet of note-paper, fluttering a little in the breeze which streamed through the window, gave out the subtlest and most delicate perfume, a perfume which seemed like a waft from a field of violets, carried on a west wind. There were only a few words, written in a delicate feminine handwriting:—
"Should there not be honour, even amongst thieves?"
The young man struck a theatrical attitude.
"Fate has sent me to join you," he declared, waving his hand towards the sheet of violet-coloured paper. "I recognise the handwriting. I know well the perfume. I can tell you who wrote that note."