Duhamel Frères were slightly more helpful. They produced no such article themselves, though they believed that there was a certain demand in Paris for similar effects. They were willing to refer the enquiry to their Paris house if Madam would leave the handkerchief with them. After a moment’s thought, Inez borrowed a pair of scissors and snipped a quarter off the unknown Daphne’s five-inch square of absurdity. “Pompadour” was interested. Madame Pompadour, who ran the business herself, with two good-looking assistants, knew Inez by name, and was intrigued by what she had read of the Inquest on Sir Garth’s death; she was still more intrigued by what Inez, taking one of her quick decisions (which seldom erred on the side of discretion) told her. She did not agree with Mr. Rodney-Phillips that it was a low-grade perfume; on the contrary, it was in its way a work of art, though the taste which demanded it might not be high. She made nothing of the kind herself, but she knew one or two small undertakings which might have produced it. She gave Inez, in the first place, two addresses: “Orient Spices” in North Audley Street and “Mignon” in Pall Mall Place. Inez took the nearest one first. She found “Mignon” to be a small, dark shop in the celebrated passage which leads from Pall Mall, nearly opposite Marlborough House, into King Street. It was faintly lit by electric candles in peculiar-looking sconces. There was a heavy reek of exotic perfume, and a very pretty but too highly coloured houri was in attendance. The girl looked as if she were more accustomed to being cajoled by members of the other sex, but she was not proof against the ingenuous (and ingenious) charm of Inez’s appeal; she proved, in fact, to be, beneath her rather spectacular exterior, a very simple and friendly girl, deriving from no more dashing a locality than Fulham. Once more Inez revealed the nature of her quest; Mignon’s assistant—she answered popularly to the name of “Mignonette”—was thrilled to the tips of her pink and pointed finger-nails. She applied the remaining three-quarters of Daphne’s handkerchief to her pretty nose and, after one sniff, exclaimed excitedly: “Why, it’s our _Eau D’Enfer_!” “What?” cried Inez, eagerly. “You know it?” “We make it! Or rather it’s made for us—exclusively. Fearfully distangy—quite unique.” “But could you trace it to anyone particular?” “Might; there aren’t so many that buy it. I believe I can remember most of them that’s had it this year. D’you want men or women?” Inez thought for a moment. “Women in the first place,” she said. “It’ll be almost impossible to trace it through men, unless you know the woman they were buying it for.” Mignonette screwed her face into a pretty frown of thought. “There’s old Lady Harlton—nasty old hag—sixty if she’s a day—’twouldn’t be her. Then there’s Mrs. van Doolen—she’s no chicken either—pretty hot stuff though.” “No, no,” said Inez. “Daphne must be fairly young.”