“Of course, I can.” “Tell him to make sure that no one trespasses on your lawn between now and ten o’clock. Close that window, draw the blind and curtains, and block that small window, the one through which you saw the ghost.” “Ye gods!” cackled Hart ecstatically. “Why all these precautions?” demanded Grant, rather amused now. “I’m supposed to be on the very verge of arresting you, and it would weaken the faith of my allies if I were seen drinking your wines and eating your chicken.” “By the way, how did you know I had chickens in store, and a spit on which to roast them?” “I looked you over at five-thirty this morning, having traveled from London by the mail train. I must lecture you on your inefficient window-catches, Mr. Grant. Several self-respecting burglars of my acquaintance would give your house the go-by as being too easy. And, one other matter. I suggest that any man who mentions the Steynholme murder again before the coffee arrives shall be fined a sovereign for each offense, such fine, or fines, to form a fund for the relief of his hearers. _Cré nom d’un pipe_! Three intelligent men can surely discuss more interesting topics while they eat!” Chapter VIII. An Interrupted Symposium “Have a cigarette,” said Grant to Furneaux, when the blinds were drawn, a lamp lighted, and the sherry dispensed. “Thank you.” The self-invited guest took one. He sniffed it, broke the paper wrapping, and crumbled some of the tobacco between finger and thumb. “Ah, those Greeks!” he said sadly. “They simply can’t go straight. This brand of Turk used to be made of a tobacco grown on a slope above Salonica. A strip of sun-baked soil built up a reputation which is now being bartered for filthy lucre by the use of Egyptian ‘fillings.’” “You’re a connoisseur, Mr. Hawknose—try these,” said Hart, proffering a case, from which the detective drew a cigarette, throwing the other one aside. “Why ‘Hawknose’?” he inquired. “A blend. First syllable of Hawkshaw and second of Furneaux—the latter Anglicized, of course.” “And vulgarized.” “You prefer Furshaw, perhaps?” “Either effort is feeble for a man who can write about South America, and be lucid. Do you smoke this stuff, may I ask?” While talking, he had smelt and destroyed the second cigarette. “If it’s a fair question, what the devil do _you_ smoke?” cried Hart. “Nothing. I’m a non-smoker. My profession demands a clear intellect, not a brain atrophied by nicotine.” “Piffle! Carlyle and Bismarck were smokers.” “Who reads Carlyle now-a-days? And what modern German pays heed to Bismarck’s dogmas? Look at that pipe of yours. It was once a pure ivory white. Now it is black—soiled by tobacco juice. Your lungs are slowly emulating it, and your wits will cloud in time. Read Tolstoi, Mr. Hart. He will teach you how nicotine deadens the conscience.” “At last I know why I smoke like a Thames tug,” laughed Hart, “but I’m blest if I can understand why _you_ make such a study of the vile weed.”