Once more Inez revealed the nature of her quest; Mignon’s assistant—she answered popularly to the name of “Mignonette”—was thrilled to the tips of her pink and pointed finger-nails. She applied the remaining three-quarters of Daphne’s handkerchief to her pretty nose and, after one sniff, exclaimed excitedly:
“Why, it’s our Eau D’Enfer!”
“What?” cried Inez, eagerly. “You know it?”
“We make it! Or rather it’s made for us—exclusively. Fearfully distangy—quite unique.”
“But could you trace it to anyone particular?”
“Might; there aren’t so many that buy it. I believe I can remember most of them that’s had it this year. D’you want men or women?”
Inez thought for a moment.
“Women in the first place,” she said. “It’ll be almost impossible to trace it through men, unless you know the woman they were buying it for.”
Mignonette screwed her face into a pretty frown of thought.
“There’s old Lady Harlton—nasty old hag—sixty if she’s a day—’twouldn’t be her. Then there’s Mrs. van Doolen—she’s no chicken either—pretty hot stuff though.”