But Corthell, as he lit his cigarette, produced his own match box. It was a curious bit of antique silver, which he had bought in a Viennese pawnshop, heart-shaped and topped with a small ducal coronet of worn gold. On one side he had caused his name to be engraved in small script. Now, as Laura admired it, he held it towards her.

“An old pouncet-box, I believe,” he informed her, “or possibly it held an ointment for her finger nails.” He spilled the matches into his hand. “You see the red stain still on the inside; and⁠—smell,” he added, as she took it from him. “Even the odour of the sulphur matches cannot smother the quaint old perfume, distilled perhaps three centuries ago.”

An hour later Corthell left her. She did not follow him further than the threshold of the room, but let him find his way to the front door alone.