“Oh the usual sort of thing. Brownish-grey coat and skirt and one of those small hats—reddy-brown I should think. Brownish stockings.”
“That identifies her precisely,” said Inez sarcastically. “You’re quite hopeless. Wasn’t there anything to distinguish her from twenty-thousand other shop-girls?”
“She wasn’t a shop-girl! She was . . .”
“Oh yes, a princess in disguise of course—especially the disguise. But wasn’t there anything?”
Ryland thought for a minute. Suddenly his face brightened.
“There was! Scent! Marvellous stuff—simply made you feel wicked all down your spine.”
“Pah! Patchouli, I should think—fines it down to ten thousand, perhaps. Look here, Ry, you’ve got to find this girl. Put a notice in the Agony Column—‘Daphne, Birdcage Walk. Broken-hearted. Write Box something. Boysie’—or whatever silly name you let her call you. Seriously, you must find her. It’s not the least use your seeing this detective with a story like that. I’ll put him off. And just you get your nose down to it and do some finding.”
So it was that Inez returned to the morning-room with her tale of woe. It wasn’t true, of course; but on the other hand, her promise to tell Poole everything that she found out was honestly given; she had pledged her word of honour—a mysterious distinction, surviving perhaps from schoolroom days.
The period of grace won for him by his sister’s diplomacy did not at first appear likely to be of great benefit to Ryland Fratten. He spent most of the evening in almost voiceless gloom, growled at Inez whenever she talked to him—especially when she tried to get him to take some interest in his own predicament—and left the house for his lodgings soon after half past nine.
On the following morning, however, he appeared in time for breakfast, looking much more his usual, cheerful self. Inez was already in the breakfast-room, brewing coffee; Ryland went up to her, put his arm round her waist, and kissed her affectionately.