“Curse you, Inez; you’re pulling my leg. Well, as a matter of fact we didn’t get much forwarder really that evening—self-possessed young person she was. I tried to fix up something for next day but she said she was going away. The best I could get out of her was that she would take me for another drive on the following Thursday. She said she’d pick me up in St. James’s Park—at the end of the Birdcage Walk—as soon after five as possible. It sounded rather surreptitious and jolly and of course I agreed. I got there at a quarter to five and waited till nearly seven, but she never came. I haven’t seen her since—as a matter of fact, I’ve hardly thought about her.” The gloomy look had returned to Ryland’s face; the story had brought him back to grim facts. “But who is she, Ry? Where does she live?” asked Inez. “I tell you I don’t know. Daphne—that’s all she’d tell me in the way of a name. And she wouldn’t tell me where she lived. I believe she’s got a job somewhere—that was why she wouldn’t come to lunch—but where or what it is I don’t know and she wouldn’t tell me.” “Can you get hold of her? How did you propose to meet again? I suppose you were going to?” “I can’t get hold of her. She was going to meet me, and as she didn’t I don’t know in the least where she is.” “Good Lord,” said Inez. “It is a blank wall—and a thin story. What was she like?” “I told you—dark hair, dark eyes, about your height.” “Dark eyes? What colour?” “Oh I don’t know—brown, I suppose. Or it may have been her eyelashes that were dark.” “What a rotten description. What did she wear?” “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.