The period of grace won for him by his sister’s diplomacy did not at first appear likely to be of great benefit to Ryland Fratten. He spent most of the evening in almost voiceless gloom, growled at Inez whenever she talked to him—especially when she tried to get him to take some interest in his own predicament—and left the house for his lodgings soon after half past nine. On the following morning, however, he appeared in time for breakfast, looking much more his usual, cheerful self. Inez was already in the breakfast-room, brewing coffee; Ryland went up to her, put his arm round her waist, and kissed her affectionately. “I suppose I’ve no right to do that now,” he said. “Just as much as ever you had,” replied Inez. “Yes, but I didn’t know it before. Where ignorance is bli . . . I mean,—no, I don’t; I’m getting muddled. What I really mean is, that there’s no fun in breaking a rule if you don’t know you’re breaking it. In other words, now I’ve no right to kiss you—I really want to.” A faint flush appeared on Inez’ usually calm face. “You’d better get yourself something to eat,” she said crisply. “Your mind’s not very clear before food.” Ryland laughed. “My mind’s been working to some tune since I saw you last. I’ve got a clue!” Inez turned quickly. “What?” she exclaimed. “That scent! You remember, I told you that Daphne used a very attractive scent; well, I’ve found it. That’s to say I’ve found a handkerchief of hers that still smells of it. I remembered last night that she’d dropped her handkerchief getting out of the car and I’d pinched it—rather romantic—something to remind me of her—that sort of thing.” “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.