delicate perfume of heliotrope stopped him. There was something
familiar about it, something that held him wondering and
mystified, until he knew that he had lost the opportunity to
recall Pierre and his companion. He looked at the handkerchief
more, closely. It was a dainty fabric, so soft that it gave barely
the sensation of touch when he crushed it in the palm of his hand.
For a few moments he was puzzled to account for the filmy strip of
lace. Then the truth came to him. Jeanne had used it to bind her
hair!

He laughed softly, joyously, as he wound the bit of fabric about
his fingers and retraced his steps toward Churchill. Again and
again he pressed the tiny handkerchief to his face, breathing of
its sweetness; and the action suddenly stirred his memory to the
solution of its mystery. It was this same sweetness that had come
to him on the night that he had looked down into the beautiful
face of Eileen Brokaw at the Brokaw ball. He remembered now that
Eileen Brokaw loved heliotrope, and that she always wore a purple
heliotrope at her white throat or in the gold of her hair. For a
moment it struck him as singular that so many things had happened
this day to remind him of Brokaw's daughter. The thought hastened
his steps. He was anxious to look at the picture again, to
convince himself that he had been mistaken. Gregson was asleep
when he re-entered the cabin. The light was burning low, and
Philip turned up the wick. On the table was the picture as Gregson
had left it. This time there was no doubt. He had drawn the face
of Eileen Brokaw. In a spirit of jest he had written under it,
"The Wife of Lord Fitzhugh."

In spite of their absurdity the words affected Philip curiously.