"That's Parma violets, Wigan," said the professor, waving the handkerchief towards me. It was one of his own, so had evidently been specially prepared for this test. "I wonder what percentage of women use the scent? It is not much of a clue for us, I am afraid."
He put the handkerchief away, and then from another pocket produced a second handkerchief, also wrapped in tissue paper.
This time it was a fragile affair of lawn and lace.
"Smell that, Mr. Winbush."
"That's it!" the man exclaimed; no hesitation this time.
"You can swear to it?"
"Yes, sir."
"Rather a pleasant scent but peculiar, Wigan. I do not know what it is."
Nor did I, but the handkerchief interested me. Worked in the corner were the letters "Y.D."
"I can get to work now, Mr. Winbush," said Quarles. "Your master tells you to do whatever I advise. Of course, I understand that in keeping these facts to yourself you were acting in your master's interests, but were it generally known that you had suppressed the truth you might get into trouble. Have you any relatives in town?"