"There were other notes as well mentioned in that fateful letter. But what had become of the other notes? Nobody seemed to know or care about that. But the numbers were known, and strangely enough, eventually they turned up in this very house. They were paid over the gambling table that night that Isidore gave a cheque to the Marchioness. The question is, who paid those notes over, who was it who first brought them into the room that night?"
"A question that can never be solved," the Countess gasped.
"You are mistaken," Lawrence said quietly, "I have handled those notes, and I have solved the problem. They were produced in the first instance by you."
Leona Lalage was on her feet in a moment. Her face was pale as ashes.
"You are wrong," she cried. "It could not have been so."
"It was so, because of the scent of them. Every one of these notes was--and is--very slightly impregnated with the smell of tuberose."
There was a long, long silence, a silence that could be felt.