As the stiff-ringed fingers were bent back, a little glittering fragment was displayed.
Cleek grasped it, and twitching back his head sniffed violently two or three times.
The doctor started in amazement.
"Good Lord, man," said he testily, "you can't tell who it belongs to by smelling it."
"I'm not so sure of that," responded Cleek smiling. "At any rate, find me the person who scents himself or herself with Huile de Jasmin, and you will be on the right road."
"Huile de Jasmin!" interjected the doctor suddenly. "Huile de Jas—no, no, it is not possible. I will not believe that." He had risen to his feet and was gazing across at Cleek, his face drawn and white.
"You know some one who uses that scent?" said Cleek quietly. "Come, Doctor, in her interests, clear the ground first of all; do not delay matters. There may be nothing in it, but——" His tones were fraught with significance, and the other man realized their value.
"I have known Miss Jennifer Wynne to use it. She is very fond of the scent," he said, grudgingly. "But that does not mean she had anything to do with this," he pointed to the floor. "It is rarely that a woman fires a revolver, and as this wound has clearly been caused by this weapon here the first thing we have to do is to find the owner of it."
"True," said Cleek, quietly, bending as he spoke and pulling the dead man's lips down.