The Canon bowed. “Thank you,” he said. “There is—er—a statement I wish to make—something in the way of evidence.” “What is it?” asked the coroner. “When I went on board the yacht yesterday morning there was something I found in the cabin—something I ought, perhaps, to have given to the police—but my mind was so much agitated at the time.” The superintendent and Colson looked up quickly. The coroner asked sharply: “What was it?” “A band off a cigar—lying on the floor of the cabin—here it is,” and he laid it on the table. The jury leaned forward—it was a moment of intense interest—the coroner motioned for the cigar band to be passed to him, took and examined it. Then he sat still thinking, leaning back in his chair, his head bent down. Then he said: “You think this important?” “I do.” “Why?” “Because my cousin did not smoke. He told me so on Saturday evening.” The coroner sat bolt upright in his chair, a frown on his face, his eyes literally glaring at the Canon. “The jury must see this. Pass it round,” he exclaimed. Then he went on with great severity: “You must forgive my saying, Canon Fittleworth, that I consider you have behaved in an exceedingly careless manner. I have no doubt that you did not think—as you say—but a man of your intelligence ought to have thought. This should have been handed to the police immediately. It is just such want of thought that often leads to grave hindrances of justice. I am sorry to have to say this, but, in my position here, it is only my duty.” He had leaned forward as he spoke, his elbows on the table. As he resumed his former upright position, his right elbow swept one or two papers off the table. They fell fluttering into the fire-place. He leaned over to the right to pick them up, but before he could do so the foreman of the jury went down on one knee to assist him. The coroner picked up one bit of paper, Proctor the rest. “Thanks,” said the coroner as the foreman handed them to him. Meanwhile, the cigar band was being passed from man to man of the jury. Each of them examined it solemnly and portentously, one or two shaking their heads with an air of profound wisdom. So it went round till it reached the foreman, and his examination was the longest of all. He pursed up his little round mouth, adjusted a pair of spectacles on his nose, and looked carefully at the little red and gold object. Finally, as though loath to part with it, he handed it to two of the jurymen across the table who had not yet seen it, and they passed it on to the coroner. Meanwhile, the Canon was standing with burning face. It was a new and humiliating experience for a cathedral dignitary to be soundly rated in public, and though, in his heart of hearts, he admitted the justice of it, he was exceedingly irritated. “I much regret,” he said stiffly, and a little pompously—“I much regret what you are pleased to call my indiscretion, but I am not accustomed to experiences of this nature. I can say no more.”