clung to her clothes in the library beyond. As Mackay sniffed
also, Kennedy smiled.

"Coty's Jacqueminot rose," he remarked.

With his usual swift and practiced certainty Kennedy then
inspected the extemporized dressing room. He seemed to satisfy
himself that no subtle attack had been made upon the girl here,
although I doubt that he had held any such supposition seriously
in the first place. In my association of several years with
Kennedy, following our first intimacy of college days, I had
learned that his success as a scientific detective was the result
wholly of his thoroughness of method. To watch him had become a
never-ending delight, even in the dull preliminary work of a case
as baffling as this one. Mackay also seemed content just to enact
the role of spectator.

Kennedy thumbed through the delicate intimacies of her traveling
bag with the keen, impersonal manner which always distinguished
him; then he found her beaded handbag and proceeded to rummage
through that. Suddenly he paused as he unfolded a piece of note
paper, and we gathered around to read:

MY DEAR STELLA: Have something very important to tell you. Will
you lunch Tuesday at the P. G. tearoom? LARRY.

"Tuesday--" murmured Kennedy. "And this is Monday. Who--who is
Larry, I wonder?"

I hastened to answer the question for him. It was my first