"I said 'was', remember," he said. "It is still just as generally used, but since the days when the favourites of the Harem alone had permission to use it, I have no doubt some enterprising Eurasian has manufactured it, and sells the scent over here. Not but what I am not going to keep an eye on all that little Hindoo gang over the other side of the village. I have set Dollops to work, too. I had the pleasure of meeting one of them, a Mr. Gunga Dall, a few hours ago, and before I make up my mind, there are still others. Lady Brenton herself uses the scent; Miss Jennifer, too, is mighty fond of it--I noticed at lunch. But don't forget Dr. Verrall is also an Anglo-Indian. Yes, my friend, a good many roads lead to Rome--still----" His voice trailed off into silence, for his mind had gone back again to that first eventful journey to Cheyne Court, when, looking out in the March mist, he had seen the figure of a woman cross the lawn. But was it a woman, or simply a man in the flowing robes of the East? If it had been Miss Jennifer, what was she doing that other night when the man was murdered? His gaze was fixed almost unseeing in its intentness, but suddenly his eye caught a stray sunbeam which was reflected on something thrown down beside the white bed. He gave a sort of cry and pounced upon it. Mr. Narkom fairly gasped in his excitement, at this action. "Cleek!" Mr. Narkom said, agitatedly. "What is it?" "This," he made answer. "Something which looks as if there were at least two women in this room last night, and Lady Margaret herself was one of them." He held up the object as he spoke. It was a long, glittering gold scarf from the end of which a fragment had been torn violently away. Taking out his pocketbook, Cleek unfolded with trembling fingers the torn scrap of lace found clutched in the dead hand and fitted it into the damaged place. "By James!" Mr. Narkom gasped, letting the scarf drop like a golden snake to the ground. "It fits; it fits. Cleek! how could that child have perpetrated a deed like that and escape, vanish without a sound? It is impossible--utterly and ridiculously impossible!" Cleek made no reply. His mind sped back over his last chat with Ailsa. What was it that she had said? The scarf had been given Lady Margaret by her dead father. H'mn--a valued possession, then, not likely to be given up lightly, or even lent, much less left about like this. "Perhaps someone stole it," suggested Mr. Narkom. "But who; and why leave it here?" responded Cleek, grimly. "It must be the identical scarf, the fragment proves that, and yet--Lady Brenton has one, Miss Jennifer has another----" his words trailed away again as the complexities of the clue were borne in on him.