"Yes, violets," he answered. "I associated it with her."
"Why did you close the window when you went out?"
"I can't tell you. Some notion of guarding her. I didn't know what I was doing."
"You struck a match. You had one long look at her while it burned?"
He covered his face with his hands. "Yes," he whispered.
Mme. Storey rose. "Then give me what you took from her outstretched hand," she said.
Rowcliffe's hands dropped from his face. He stared at Mme. Storey in amazed horror. His eyes seemed to protrude slightly.
"How—how could you know that!" he gasped.
"The handkerchief," said Mme. Storey.
Rowcliffe, dazed, slipped a hand in his inner breast pocket, and drew it out again with a scrap of lace in his fingers. It was extraordinary to see even in his distraught condition how tender
