Burrell followed her out of the room and down the long corridor to the room in question. Kitty left him there, and for upward of half-an-hour he remained in the apartment, busily engaged upon what he called “forming his own impressions.” After that he passed through the French windows out into the grounds beyond, had a few minutes’ conversation with some of the men, and, when he had exhausted that portion of the business, returned to the house to find that luncheon had been provided for him in the library. He thereupon sat down to it and made an excellent meal. That finished, he was wondering what he should do next, when Kitty entered the room. “I hope you have been well looked after, Mr. Burrell,” she said. “You are quite sure there is nothing else you would like?” “Nothing at all, thank you,” he answered, “unless I might ask you for a cigarette?” “A cigarette,” she replied, with a suggestion of astonishment, for he did not look like the sort of man who would have cared for anything less than a pipe or a strong cigar. “That is very unfortunate, for I am afraid we have not one in the house. My brother Godfrey, you see, never smokes them, and I remember his saying just before----” she paused for a moment and a look of pain came into her face, “just before this trouble occurred,” she continued, “that the supply he had laid in for his friends was exhausted and that he must order some more.” Then she appeared to recollect something, for her face brightened. “Ah!” she cried, “now I come to think of it, we _do_ happen to have a box which Mr. Fensden left here before he went away. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll get it.” He thanked her and she left the room, whereupon he walked to the window and stood looking out upon the lawn, drumming with the fingers of his right hand upon the pane before him. What his thoughts were at that moment will in all probability never be known, but when, a few minutes later, Kitty returned with a box of cigarettes in her hand, he turned to greet her with as much excitement in his face as he had ever been known to show about anything. The box in question was flat and square, with some Arabic writing in gold upon the lid and the inscription Kosman Constantinopolous et Cie, Cairo. Jacob Burrell may or may not have been a cigarette smoker (for my part I have never seen him with so mild a weed between his lips). I only know that on this particular occasion he stood with the cigarette in one hand for some time without lighting it, and the box in the other. “Did I understand you to say that Mr. Fensden gave these cigarettes to your brother?” he inquired at last, after he had turned certain matters over in his mind. “Yes,” she replied. “He used to say laughingly that the weakest of all Godfrey’s weak points was his dislike to Egyptian cigarettes, and that if he would only try to cultivate the taste for that tobacco, he would be converted from barbarism to comparative civilization. You have seen Mr. Fensden, of course?”