rom which I could not eliminate the depth and
intensity of my feelings. "I am no longer needed here, and it is in the
hope that I may perhaps be of some service to you in London that I have
asked Sergeant McQuade's permission to accompany him there to-day. I
have taken the deepest interest in this terrible affair, Miss Temple,
and, if it lies in my power, I intend to find the solution of it. My
reward, if I can do so, will be the knowledge that I have served you."

"You are very good, Mr. Morgan. I shall never forget it, never." She
rose and placed her hand in mine, and allowed it to remain there for a
moment--a moment which seemed far too short to me, since I had suddenly
realized that I should be madly happy could I know that I would have the
right to keep it there always. "And, when you have good news, you will
come to The Oaks and tell us about it, will you not?" she concluded,
with a smile that went to my heart.

"Indeed I shall, Miss Temple--you may be sure of that--and I hope it may
be soon."

"So do I," she said, and I turned to leave her. Then I suddenly
bethought myself of the strange Oriental perfume that had clung so
strongly to the handkerchief which the detective had found in the green
room. I turned to her once more. "Miss Temple," I said, with some
hesitation, "you will pardon me, I know, but you may remember that the
handkerchief which was found in Mr. Ashton's room upon the morning of
the--the tragedy, and which you thought you might have dropped there,
was strongly scented with a powerful Oriental perfume. May I ask what
that perfume is, and where you procured it?"

"Perfume?" she ejaculated, in surprise. "Why, Mr. Morgan, I never use
any--never."

"You never use any?" I stammered. "But it was upon your handkerchief. I
thought that perhaps you might have gotten it during your travels in
China."

"The handkerchief was mine, Mr. Morgan--that is true. But of the perfume
I know absolutely nothing. Why do you ask?"

I hardly knew what reply to make. The whole affair seemed absurdly
trivial; the identity of the perfume of the soap, and of the
handkerchief meant nothing, pointed to nothing, and yet I could not
shake off the idea that there was some intimate connection between the
perfume of the handkerchief and that of the soap which would go far
toward solving the mystery of Robert Ashton's death. I bade her good-by
with some simple explanation of my question, and hurried out to find
McQuade. I und