"I believe this to be a forgery—the scent is a clue to me. Smell it—there is a lingering sickly aroma round it. It came in an envelope, you see,—that would preserve it. It is an Eastern perfume, very heavy,—what do you say?"
She wrinkled her delicate nose:
"Yes, there is some scent from it. One perceives it at first and then it goes off. Oh, Stépan, please do not torture me. Can you be quite sure?"
"I am absolutely certain that whether it is in John's writing or not,
Ferdinand, or some one who uses his unique scent, has touched that card.
Now we must investigate everything."
He walked up and down the room in agitation for a few moments; talking
rapidly to himself—half in Russian—Amaryllis caught bits.
"Ferdinand—how to his advantage? None. What then? Harietta?
Harietta—but why for her?"
Then he sat down and stared into the fire, his yellow-green eyes blazing with intelligence, his clear brain balancing up things. But now he did not speak his thoughts aloud.
"She is jealous. I remember—she imagined that it is my child. She believes I may marry Amaryllis. It is as plain as day!"
He jumped up and excitedly held out his hands.
"Let us fetch Denzil," he cried joyously. "I can explain everything."
Amaryllis left the room swiftly and called when she got outside his door: