“So as not to get her muddled up with half a dozen others?” said Inez. “How thoughtful of you, Ryland. Let’s smell the beastly stuff.”
If Inez had expected the usual cheap sickly scent that she had spoken of, she must have been greatly surprised. The handkerchief—a fine cambric, with a thin edging of lace—gave off a very faint bitter-sweet perfume which was quite unlike anything she had met before. She at once became interested. The scent was so unusual that there seemed quite a possibility that it might be traced. She suggested to Ryland that he should take the handkerchief to one or two of the leading perfumers—Rollinson in Bond Street, Duhamel Frères, Pompadour in the Ritz Arcade—and ask them whether it was one of their creations. But Ryland seemed to have lost interest in the subject as soon as his sister took it up; he declared that the whole thing was nonsense—he wasn’t going to traipse round London making a fool of himself, just because some silly detective was getting excited about a mare’s nest.
Inez was furious with him, but neither gibes nor entreaties could stir him to make the suggested enquiries. Eventually she declared that she would do it herself, thinking perhaps that that might move him; he merely told her that she could if it amused her.
Put on her mettle by this cavalier treatment, Inez ran up to her room, put on a hat and a pointed fox fur, and was soon bowling along in a taxi to Rollinson’s. With an air of considerable empressement she demanded to see the manager and, as her appearance and her card were sufficiently important to open such an august portal, she soon found herself in that aristocratic gentleman’s room. Having already divulged her name, Inez knew that it was no good trying to invent some cock-and-bull story to cloak her inquiry; the report of the inquest was in all the papers that morning, including, of course, the account of Ryland’s abortive liaison with an unknown young lady in St. James’s Park. Very wisely, Inez decided to take the manager entirely into her confidence. Needless to say, the poor man was easy game for Inez, who, when she chose to exert her full powers, could wring sympathy out of a University Professor; had she not, only a few hours previously, derailed an ambitious young detective under full steam? Mr. Rodney-Phillips (in private life, Rodnocopoulos) became at once her ardent collaborator in the search for truth—and “Daphne.”
Inez produced the handkerchief.
“This is our only clue,” she said. “Is it possible to identify the scent? If anyone can do it, I know you can.”
Mr. Rodney-Phillips bowed and held out a fat white palm. The handkerchief being placed on it, he conveyed it to within about six inches of his fine nose, closed his eyes, and gave a long, slow, and utterly refined sniff.
Instantly he opened his eyes.
“Why, certainly, madame,” he exclaimed. “This is one of our own perfumes—one of our choicest, and most ‘chic’ conceptions—‘Breath of Eden.’ It is, of course, exclusively purveyed by ourselves; there is every hope of our being able to identify the purchaser by the help of your description of the lady—though, of course, a certain amount is sold over the counter to casual purchasers. I will send for Miss Gilling, our head assistant.”
Miss Gilling, however, was less hopeful—was, in fact, rather bored by the enquiry. There were, she declared, a number of ladies among their clientele, answering broadly to the vague description which was all that Inez could produce. The scent was a popular one and was sold in considerable quantities to both regular and occasional customers.