And then another point struck him. What, he wondered, were the precise relations between Cosgrove Ponson and Miss Betty Belcher? From their demeanour at the restaurant, they were certainly on pretty intimate terms. In this case could Miss Belcher’s testimony to Cosgrove’s call at the theatre be relied on? Here was what undoubtedly might be a flaw in the alibi, and he felt he must handle this part of it with special care. As he reached this point in his cogitations he arrived at the goal of his walk—a small but extremely fashionable tobacconist’s in Oxford Street. Handing in his card, he asked to see the manager. He was shown into a small, neatly-furnished office, and there after a few minutes a tall young man in a grey frock coat joined him. ‘Hallo, Tony,’ said the Inspector when the door had closed. The newcomer greeted his visitor breezily. ‘Why, Tanner, old son,’ he cried, ‘how goes it? You’re a stranger, you are. And what’s blown you in today?’ ‘Business as usual. I want your help.’ ‘You bet your life! And when you want help you know the right place to come. Tony B won’t see you left, eh?’ ‘I know that. You’re not as bad as you look.’ The other winked slowly. ‘And what’s little Albert’s trouble this time?’ he asked. ‘Why this,’ Tanner answered, taking out his two little boxes and shaking the cigarette ends on to the table. ‘I want to know what kind of cigarettes these are, and when they were smoked.’ ‘H’m. Think I’m a blooming crystal-gazer, do you? Or one of those Zancigs—what do you call ’em?’ As he spoke he was examining the ends with a strong glass. Then he smelt them, drew out a shred of tobacco from each and tasted it, and finally picked them up and took them out of the room. ‘Sit tight, Albert,’ he remarked as he left, ‘and keep your little hands out of mischief till daddy comes back.’ In a few minutes he re-entered and laid the ends down on the table with beside them a whole cigarette of a dark yellow colour. ‘There you are, sonny,’ he announced. ‘All chips of the old block, those are.’ ‘And what are they?’ Tanner queried, examining the little brown tube with interest. ‘Costly rubies, rich and rare,’ his friend assured him. ‘They’re what we call “Muriquis,” and they’re made in Rio by a firm called Oliveira. There ain’t many in this village, I tell you. Who are you trailing now? Is it Henry Ford or only his Majesty the King?’ ‘Neither,’ Tanner returned seriously, ‘it’s that Ponson case I’m on.’ ‘Never heard of it. But Ponson knows his way about in cigarettes anyway, you bet your life.’ ‘And how long since they were smoked? Can you tell me that?’ ‘Nope. Not Tony B. This one about an hour; this one about a week at a guess. But don’t you take all you hear for gospel. I don’t know, as the girl said when her lover proposed.’