"Why, I thought you loved roses!"
"I do—all except red ones."
I unpinned the rose from my button-hole and laid it in a glass on the shelf over his wash-basin.
"All right; anything to please you, Mac. Now out with it; give me the name of the girl, and tell me why."
Mac laughed quietly to himself and settled down in his chair. For some time he did not speak.
"Go on; I'm waiting."
"Oh, it brings up a memory, that's all, Colonel. You heard what Stirling said about the perfume of violets bringing back to him the little dinner he had with Christine Levoix at the Bellevue overlooking the Seine, didn't you?"
"Yes, but he didn't mention the girl's name."
"I know; but it was Christine. I remember that hat and the gloves. In my day they were black, not gray, and came up to her shoulders, like Yvette's. The eyes, though, never changed, no matter who sat opposite. Stirling bought a lot of violets that year; so did some of the others in the Quartier, until the Russian carried her off to Moscow," and again Mac laughed softly to himself. "Well, perfumes produce that same effect on me."
"Of violets?" I asked, twisting my head to look into Mac's eyes.