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.