“’Ullo. I’d forgotten this,” and drew forth a crumpled cigar. He looked at it ruefully. “Meant to ha’ smoked him yesterday, bein’ Sunday,” he said; “now he’s too far gone. I must chop him up and smoke him in my pipe. ’Tain’t often I gets hold of a cigar, guv’nor.” Colson, who was looking at the cigar intently, asked him quietly: “Where did you get it from?” “That ’ere artist feller we was just a-talkin’ about gave ’im to me, sir, up yonder in the ‘Mariner’s Arms.’ A good ’un, I reckon, ain’t he?” The detective took the cigar in his hand and smelt it. But, all the time, he was carefully examining the band. “Yes, it’s good enough,” he said. “Pity you’ve spoilt it. Oh—so Grayson gave it to you, did he?” “Yes, sir—Saturday afternoon, we was sittin’ in the bar parlour, me and him, and he gave ’im to me. He smoked two of ’em while I was there.” “Well, look here,” said Colson, “have one of mine instead, to make up for it.” And he pulled out what he called his “diplomatic cigar case.” He rarely smoked anything but a pipe himself, but he always kept a few good cigars in his pocket. He knew their value—when he was in search of information. “Take a couple,” he went on. “Thankee, sir—don’t mind if I do.” Tom Gale lighted one of them and smoked complacently. The detective talked volubly and then bid him good afternoon. “Blowed if he ain’t took that cigar o’ mine with him,” murmured Tom Gale after he had gone. “Absent-minded like, I’ll ’low. It doan’t matter, though.” Colson, who had quietly slipped the crushed cigar into his pocket, walked rapidly back to the inn. Arrived in the bar parlour, he laid the cigar on the table, took from his case the band which the Canon had handed in at the inquest, and carefully compared it with the other. A smile lightened his face. “That’s better!” he exclaimed. “Here’s something to go upon at last. The same brand, that’s what they are. It’s a good brand, but not specially exclusive as that idiot of a parson wanted to make out. Same brand as he smoked, he said. Very likely, but the clergy ain’t got the monopoly of the cigar trade. Anyhow, this looks convincing. This young Grayson smoked these cigars, and someone who was aboard the yacht smoked one of ’em there. It’s good enough to go upon. Mrs. Yates!” He opened the door as he spoke. The landlady bustled in. “I’m going back to Frattenbury now. And I shan’t be staying the night here.” “Sorry to lose you, Mr. Colson.” “Can’t be helped, Mrs. Yates. I don’t think there’s anything to keep me here for the present. Oh—tell me. This young lodger of yours smoked cigars, didn’t he?” “He did, sir—as I knows. He was always dropping the ash about—on my bedroom carpet too.” “Do your carpets good, if you rub the ash in.” “Lor’, sir! And the mess he made in the grate, too.”