"So, you see," Van Ingen went on, "we have an interest in this lady client of his, who comes after office hours, weeps copiously, and leaves a bunch of rosebuds as a souvenir of her visit. It may have been a client, of course."
"And the roses may have been security for an overdraft," said the ironic T. B. "What do you make of the handkerchief?"
It was an exquisite little thing of the most delicate cambric. Along one hem, in letters minutely embroidered in flowing script, there ran a line of writing. T. B. took up a magnifying glass and read it.
"'Que dieu te garde,'" he read, "and a little monogram—a gift of some sort, I gather. As far as I can see, the lettering is 'N.H.C.'—and what that means, Heaven knows! I'm afraid that, beyond intruding to an unjustifiable extent into the private affairs of our banker, we get no further. Well, Jones?"
With a knock at the door, an officer had entered.
"Sir George has returned to his house. We have just received a telephone message from one of our men."
"What has he been doing to-night—Sir George?"
"He dined at home; went to his club and returned; he does not go out again."
T. B. nodded.
"Watch the house and report," he said. The man saluted and left.