Inez Fratten, on hearing from the sedate Miss Gilling that the scent she had been trying to trace to Ryland’s mysterious charmer had been actually bought by Ryland himself, felt a chill of apprehension creep over her—a chill so vivid as to be almost physical. What could it mean? It was possible, of course, that Ryland had given it to the girl himself, but from the way he had spoken of it—as a possible clue to her identity—that seemed quite out of the question. A reference to Miss Gilling confirmed this view; the last purchase had been made several weeks—possibly two months—ago, and Ryland had said that he had only met the girl about a fortnight previously. Was Ryland lying, then? The thought sickened her. That he should lie to her, and at such a time, would have seemed to Inez impossible had she not known, only too well, the streaks of baser metal in Ryland’s alloy—he was weak, if not worse, about both women and money; might he not also be a liar—a liar of this calibre? And if a liar, a liar to her, Inez, about so desperately serious a subject, might he not be even worse? Inez shuddered again as the thought forced itself upon her. Thanking, though perfunctorily, Mr. Rodney-Phillips and Miss Gilling for their help, Inez made her way out into the street. The same chain ran repeatedly through her head and she had walked as far as the bottom of St. James’s Street before realizing where she was going. Having got so far on the way home, she decided to go straight back and have it out with Ryland—if he was still at home. But why—the thoughts kept turning over in her head—why should he have told her this silly lie? Was it just to put her off? If so, why again? To gain time? If so, what for? The thought flashed into her like a stabbing knife—to get away? To get her out of the way while he made off?—made off from her, who had practically given her word as bail to Inspector Poole! It was a terrible thought; she forced herself to stop thinking till she could get face to face with the truth. To her intense relief, she heard that Ryland was still in the house—Golpin had seen him go into the morning-room only a few minutes previously. Inez walked straight to the door, opened, and shut it firmly behind her. Ryland was sitting at the writing table, with several sheets of foolscap, covered with what appeared to be aimless scribblings, in front of him. Inez walked across the room and dropped the handkerchief on the table in front of him. “You bought that scent yourself,” she said. “Why did you tell me the handkerchief belonged to that girl—Daphne?” Ryland looked up in surprise, which deepened when he saw the cold look on her face and realized the hard inflection of her voice. “Bought it my . . . ?” Ryland picked up the handkerchief and sniffed it. A frown appeared on his face; he sniffed again, and then again.