Next morning he was up early and, as soon as was compatible with calling hours, was on his way to the office of which Zevenboom had given him the address. Sending his name in to the head of the firm, he asked for an interview. This was promptly granted him and he was ushered into the proprietor’s office, a charming little apartment fragrant with the odour of the divine weed. Now Burrell’s French is not particularly good, but Monsieur Zacroft’s English was certainly a good deal worse. However, they managed after a fashion, and with the help of a clerk, to make each other understand, and that was perhaps all that was wanted. Zacroft inquired with much solicitude after the bodily welfare of his good friend Zevenboom, and on being assured that the latter enjoyed excellent health, so far as Burrell was aware, proceeded to ask in what way he could be of service to the Englishman. The latter immediately commenced to explain, speaking in a louder tone than usual and using many gesticulations, as an Englishman so often does, in the hope of making his meaning clearer to his auditor. Later on Burrell produced the charred remnant of the cigarette. The Frenchman admitted that the cigarette shown to him was of the same brand as that manufactured by Messrs. Kosman & Constantinopolous of Cairo, of which wealthy firm, he took care to point out, he was the Parisian representative. He was also acquainted with Mr. Victor Fensden, and admitted that he had supplied that gentleman with cigarettes of the brand mentioned for some years past. Burrell admitted to himself that so far this was very good. He hoped that there would be still better news to follow. “Perhaps you can tell me when he obtained his last consignment from you?” he said, after a short pause. The manager begged Burrell to excuse him while he went into his shop to ask the question. When he returned he laid a piece of paper before the other. The latter took it up and examined it carefully, though he was not at all prepared to find that the information would be of much value to him. The surprise he received, however, almost took his breath away. It was the work of a moment to whip out his pocket-book and to open it. He turned the leaves until he arrived at the entry he wanted. “And am I to understand you to say that Mr. Fensden wrote to you from England for them? Are you quite sure of it?” “Quite sure,” replied the other, and intimated in exceedingly poor English that he was prepared to show his customer’s letter in proof of the genuineness of his assertion. He did so, and Burrell examined it carefully. Ultimately he prevailed upon the other to permit him to keep the letter. “I wouldn’t lose it for a thousand pounds,” he said to himself. “Good gracious, this is nothing less than a stupendous piece of luck. It’s the last thing in the world I should have thought of.”