“Oh bother Mr. Hessel; you must get hold of them, Mr. Mangane. In the meantime, will you talk to Ryland about them? Explain to him what they are—you know something about them, I expect?” Mangane nodded. “Make him understand about them—see if he can’t find something to take hold of. There must be a clue somewhere—there simply must. I know the police think Ryland killed father but of course he didn’t! Anyone who knows him, knows that.” (Inez had forgotten her own terrible doubts of an hour ago.) “I don’t believe it’s got anything to do with the will. I believe it’s some business enemy. You don’t know of anyone, do you?” Mangane shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t, Miss Fratten. Poole asked me that.” “Then we must hunt for him. I believe those papers are the key. You understand that sort of thing; you could see things that we should miss. Oh, I’m asking you an awful lot! But you will help us, won’t you?” Mangane looked steadily into her eager face. “I’d do anything to help you, Miss Fratten,” he said quietly. The front door opened and shut and Ryland’s voice was heard talking to one of the servants. Inez excused herself and hurrying out led the way to her own sitting-room. Ryland’s face was serious; there was none of the jubilation of the early morning, but he held out his hand and again there lay in it a woman’s cambric handkerchief. Inez seized it eagerly and put it to her nose. “Pouf!” she said, dropping it hurriedly. “My aunt, what stuff!” “It is a bit fierce, isn’t it? I rather like it, though.” “You would; it’s the sort of stuff men do like.” She sniffed the handkerchief again; it gave off a strong, pungent, almost burnt, odour—much too strong to be attractive to a woman, and yet clearly possessing a quality of rather oriental fascination. “Hot stuff.” “It is, and it’s Daphne’s; I remember it unmistakably now. Can we trace it, do you think?” “We can try. I doubt if it’s Rollinson’s—or any respectable London perfumers. It’s more likely Paris—a small shop behind the Opéra; more likely still, it’s Port Said. But we can try.” Ryland held out his hand for it. “No,” said Inez. “This is my job; you’d make a mess of it—men are too bashful to worry shops. You go and talk to Mangane now; he’s got a job for you—I’ve been talking to him.” Laid on to her new scent, Inez once more set out upon the trail. Returning to Rollinson’s, she found Mr. Rodney-Phillips noticeably less accommodating than upon the occasion of her previous visit. One sniff of the handkerchief was enough for him; he had never sold, nor ever would sell such a low-class perfume; he knew of no establishment (he had no cognizance of “shops”) which might be likely to deal in it; he wished her good morning.