As
he opened it with a key on his watch-chain, he was struck with a faint
perfume that seemed to come from it,--a perfume that he remembered. Was
it the smell of the flower that Miss Faulkner carried, or the scent of
the handkerchief with which she had wiped his cheek, or a mingling of
both? Or was he under some spell to think of that wretched girl, and her
witch-like flower? He leaned over the box and suddenly started. Upon
the outer covering of a dispatch was a singular blood-red streak!
He examined it closely,--it was the powdery stain of the lily
pollen,--exactly as he had seen it on her handkerchief.
There could be no mistake. He passed his finger over the stain; he could
still feel the slippery, infinitesimal powder of the pollen. It was not
there when he had closed the box that morning; it was impossible that
it should be there unless the box had been opened in his absence. He
re-examined the contents of the box; the papers were all there. More
than that, they were papers of no importance except to him personally;
contained no plans nor key to any military secret; he had been far too
wise to intrust any to the accidents of this alien house. The prying
intruder, whoever it was, had gained nothing! But there was unmistakably
the attempt! And the existence of a would-be spy within the purlieus of
the house was equally clear.
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