Colson nodded thoughtfully, but said nothing. He was a silent man when at his work—except when he was drawing out information. Then he could be companionable enough. But he rarely made remarks as to probable or possible results while he was actually investigating a case. When they came back to Marsh Quay, Colson was left in charge, and the constable instructed to warn men for the jury. The body had been carried over to the “Mariner’s Arms” and laid on a bed in one of Mrs. Yates’s rooms. The superintendent drove Canon Fittleworth back to Frattenbury, and then went on to report to Major Renshaw, the Chief Constable, who lived just outside the city. That evening, Canon Fittleworth sat in his comfortable study, discussing the events of the day with his wife and daughter. He put his hand in his pocket for something, and felt his case there. Then he remembered. “Oh!” he said, “that reminds me.” “What, dear?” asked his wife. “Wait a minute.” He got up, unlocked a cabinet, and took out a box of cigars. Then he produced the red and gold band from his pocket, and carefully compared it with those on the cigars in the box. “Look here,” he said, as he went back to his seat; “I found this lying on the floor in the cabin where poor Reginald was murdered.” “Poor man,” said his daughter, as she took the cigar band to look at it; “do you think that he was smoking when he was murdered?” “No,” said the Canon; “Reginald did not smoke. I offered him a cigar last night and he refused it. He said he hadn’t smoked for years, and he disliked it.” “Oh, daddy,” exclaimed the girl, “you ought to have shown this to the police!” “I suppose I ought—yes—I never thought of it. However, I shall bring it forward at the inquest to-morrow. But there’s something very queer about it,” he went on. “What is it, Charles?” asked his wife. “Why, it’s off one of my own cigars!” “Off one of your own cigars?” exclaimed his daughter. “Look for yourself,” and he passed the box over to them. “But,” said the girl, when they had both compared the band with the others, “anyone might smoke the same sort of cigar.” “No, they mightn’t. That’s just the point,” replied the Canon dryly. “This box was sent to me by my Spanish friend, De Garcia—you remember him? Well, he wrote to say they are a special brand reserved for the planters. They never sell them anywhere. What do you think of _that_?” CHAPTER V Detective-Sergeant Colson Discovers Clues “Mrs. Yates,” said Detective-Sergeant Colson, as he finished a modest meal, served at his request in the “Mariner’s Arms,” “I am thinking of making my quarters here, at all events till the inquest is over. Can I have a room?” “I’m only too glad to have you, sir,” replied the buxom landlady. “I’m not much given to be afraid, but I don’t like the idea of being alone in the house with a corpse, and I was thinking of asking a neighbour to sleep here.” “You’re a widow, aren’t you?” “Yes, sir—these six years.”