"Mrs. Herne is Maraquito's aunt,"
he said again.
"No, sir, pardon me. Maraquito hasn't got an aunt. Leastways
the aunt, if there is such a person, has never set foot in the
house."
"Perhaps Maraquito sees her secretly."
"Well," said Drudge pensively, "she certainly went in by a
side door, Mr. Jennings. Do you want me to watch further,
sir?"
"Yes. Keep your eye on the Soho house, and should Mrs. Herne
reappear, follow her. Anything else?"
"Yes, sir. Mrs. Herne when walking down the hill dropped a
small bag."
"Ah! Have you got it?"
"No. She was too sharp for me. I was picking it up when she
missed it and came to claim it. But before she reached me I
had opened it. Only her handkerchief was inside. I gave it
back, and she gave me a shilling. But the queer thing, sir,
is the scent."
"What scent?" asked Jennings, looking keenly at the man.
"Oh, a strange strong scent, fit to knock you down, sir."
"Well, and why shouldn't a lady use scent. It is customary."
"It is, sir. My wife uses scent. But this was a queer smell.
And then a man shouldn't use scent," burst out Drudge.
"Some men are effeminate enough to do so," said Jennings
drily. "But I don't quite understand all this."
"I can tell you what puzzled me at once," said the underling,
"after watching Maraquito's house for some time, I put another
fellow on, and went to the office. I had to go to see the
police about some matter, and I spoke to Inspector Twining of
the Rexton district.
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