"The soap?" she asked.
He nodded.
She opened her bag.
"Good," he said. "I see you have kept the wrappings, and that, I presume, is the letter which accompanied the—what shall I say—gift? Don't touch it with your bare hand," he said quickly. "Handle it with the paper."
He pulled his gloves from his pocket and slipped them on, then took the cake of soap in his hand and carried it to the light, smelt it and returned it to its paper.
"Now let me see the letter."
She handed it to him, and he read it.
"From Brandan, the perfumers. They wouldn't be in it, but we had better make sure."
He walked to the telephone and gave a number, and the girl heard him speaking in a low tone to somebody at the other end. Presently he put down the receiver and walked back, his hands thrust into his pockets.