"Will it make them lay?" I asked, watching the ruddy old face peering into the sack.
"I guess it might, if Cliff told 'em they'd have to lay or eat it, judgin' from the smell that sample's put in my bag."
"Not as sweet as this?" I suggested, and leaned across to lay the pomander in his gnarled hand.
The familiar expression of acute, almost greedy pleasure flowed into his face. His nostrils expanded with eager intake of the perfume that seemed an elixir of delight. He said nothing, absorbed in sensation.
"Do you know of a lady who wears that scent?" I asked. "A lady with bright fair hair, colored like copper-bronze?"
"Not I!" he denied briefly.
"No one at all like that—with hair warmer in shade than ordinary gold color, and a lot of it?"
"No. Not around here, nor anywhere I've been! What do you call this perfumery, Mr. Locke?"
"I have no idea," I answered, sharply disappointed. "No one knows except the young lady I am trying to find. Are you sure you cannot help me at all? There is no newcomer in the neighborhood, no visitor at any house who might be the one I am looking for?"
He shook his head, giving back the pomander with marked reluctance.