"I wanted to ask her a question or two about several things," said Rolfe, who had determined to disclose his hand sufficiently to bring Mrs. Holymead back to London if she had anything to do with the crime. "I want to ask her about some letters that were stolen--no, I won't say stolen--letters that were removed from Riversbrook. I have been informed that even if these letters are no longer in existence she can give the police a good idea of what was in them." The telephone bell in the corner of the room rang suddenly. Mademoiselle Chiron ran to answer it, and accidentally dropped her handkerchief on the floor in picking up the receiver. Mademoiselle Chiron began speaking on the telephone, but she stopped suddenly, staring with frightened eyes into the mirror at the other side of the room. The glass reflected the actions of Rolfe at the table. Seated with his back towards her, he had taken advantage of her being called to the telephone to examine her handkerchief, which he had picked up from the floor. He had produced from his pocketbook the scrap of lace and muslin which he had found in the murdered man's hand. He had the two on the table side by side comparing them, and Mademoiselle Chiron noticed a smile of satisfaction flit across his face as he did so. While she looked he restored the scrap to his pocket-book, and the pocket-book to his pocket. Hastily she turned to the telephone again and continued, in a voice which a quick ear would have detected was slightly hysterical. Then she hung up the receiver and turned to Rolfe. "But, monsieur, you were saying--" Rolfe handed the handkerchief to its owner with a courtly bow which he flattered himself was equal to the best French school. "I picked this up off the floor, mademoiselle. It is yours, I think?" "This?" Mademoiselle Chiron touched the handkerchief with a dainty forefinger. "It is my handkerchief. I dropped it." "It is very pretty," said Rolfe, with simulated indifference. "I suppose you bought that in Paris. It does not look English,'' "But no, monsieur, it is quite Engleesh. I bought it in the shop." "Indeed! A London shop?" inquired Rolfe, with equal indifference. "The _lingerie_ shop in Oxford Street--what do you call it--Hobson's?" "I'm sure I don't know--these ladies' things are a bit out of my line," said Rolfe, rising as he spoke with a smile, in which there was more than a trace of self-satisfaction.