"Humph!" said Tarling. "Do you know anything about daffodils, Whiteside?" Whiteside shook his head with a laugh. "All daffodils are daffodils to me. Is there any difference in them? I suppose there must be." Tarling nodded. "These are known as Golden Spurs," he said, "a kind which is very common in England. The daffodils in Miss Rider's flat are the variety known as the Emperor." "Well?" said Whiteside. "Well," said the other slowly, "the daffodils I saw this morning which were found on Lyne's chest were Golden Spurs." He knelt down by the side of the bed and began pushing aside the stems, examining the ground carefully. "Here you are," he said. He pointed to a dozen jagged stems. "That is where the daffodils were plucked, I'd like to swear to that. Look, they were all pulled together by one hand. Somebody leaned over and pulled a handful." Whiteside looked dubious. "Mischievous boys sometimes do these things." "Only in single stalks," said Tarling, "and the regular flower thieves are careful to steal from various parts of the bed so that the loss should not be reported by the Park gardeners." "Then you suggest--" "I suggest that whoever killed Thornton Lyne found it convenient, for some reason best known to himself or herself, to ornament the body as it was found, and the flowers were got from here." "Not from the girl's flat at all?" "I'm sure of that," replied Tarling emphatically. "In fact, I knew that this morning when I'd seen the daffodils which you had taken to Scotland Yard." Whiteside scratched his nose in perplexity. "The further this case goes, the more puzzled I am," he said. "Here is a man, a wealthy man, who has apparently no bitter enemies, discovered dead in Hyde Park, with a woman's silk night-dress wound round his chest, with list slippers on his feet, and a Chinese inscription in his pocket--and further, to puzzle the police, a bunch of daffodils on the chest. That was a woman's act, Mr. Tarling," he said suddenly. Tarling started. "How do you mean?" he asked. "It was a woman's act to put flowers on the man," said Whiteside quietly. "Those daffodils tell me of pity and compassion, and perhaps repentance." A slow smile dawned on Tarling's face. "My dear Whiteside," he said, "you are getting sentimental! And here," he added, looking up, "attracted to the spot, is a gentleman I seem to be always meeting--Mr. Milburgh, I think." Milburgh had stopped at the sight of the detective, and looked as if he would have been glad to have faded away unobserved. But Tarling had seen him, and Milburgh came forward with his curious little shuffling walk, a set smile on his face, the same worried look in his eyes, which Tarling had seen once before. "Good morning, gentlemen," he said, with a flourish of his top hat. "I suppose, Mr. Tarling, nothing has been discovered?" "At any rate, I didn't expect to discover _you_ here this morning!" smiled Tarling. "I thought you were busy at the Stores."