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.
He felt that he had acquitted himself with an adroitness which Crewe
himself might have envied. He had made an important discovery and
extracted the name of the shop where the handkerchief had been bought
without--so he flattered himself--arousing any suspicions on the part of
the lady.
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