The other took up his glasses and perched them on the end of his delicate nose, after which he held the charred fragment of the cigarette up to the light. This did not seem to satisfy him, so he took it to the window and examined it more closely. He turned it over, smelt it, extracted a shred of the tobacco, smelt that, and at last came back to the table. “That cigarette was made by my good friend Kosman Constantinopolous, of Cairo, a most excellent firm, but as yet they have no representatives in England. Some day they will have.” “Where is the nearest place at which these cigarettes can be obtained?” asked Burrell. “In Paris--if you like I will give you the address,” the other replied, “or better still I will get some for you should you desire to have some. They are expensive but the tobacco is good.” “I won’t trouble you to procure me any just now, thank you,” Burrell answered. “I only wanted to try and fix the maker’s name. It comes into some important business that I am just now at work upon. I suppose I can rely upon your information being correct? It will make a big difference to me.” “My good friend, you may be quite sure of that,” the other answered with pride. “I am Israel Zevenboom, the expert, and after fifty years’ experience, should not be likely to make a mistake in such a simple matter as that.” Then, at Burrell’s request, he thereupon wrote down the address of the firm in Paris, after which the detective thanked him heartily for his trouble and bade him good-bye. “To-morrow,” said Burrell to himself, “if all goes well, I will take a run down to Mr. Henderson’s country seat and make a few inquiries there. After that it looks as if Paris is likely to be the scene of my next operations. There are one or two little preliminaries, however, that must be settled before I leave England.” He was as good as his word, and the mid-day train next day landed him upon the platform at Detwich. He inquired how far it was to the Hall, and on being informed of his direction, set off along the High Road at a swinging pace. He was a man who never rode when he could walk, and, had he not chosen another profession, it is possible he might have made a name for himself in the athletic world as a pedestrian. “It seems a sad thing,” he said to himself, as he turned in through the lodge gates and began to cross the park, “that a young gentleman owning such a beautiful place as this should be clapped into limbo on a charge of murder. But here I suppose is what the literary gentlemen call the ‘Irony of Fate.’ However, it’s my business to get him out of the scrape he’s in if I can, and not to bother my head about anything else.” Having reached the house he sent his name in to Mrs. Henderson, and asked for an interview. Her daughter Kitty was with her in the morning room when the butler entered. “Mr. Jacob Burrell?” she said in a puzzled way, looking at the card the man had handed to her. “I don’t know the name, do you, Kitty?”