Colson, who had sprung to his feet suddenly, interrupted him. “Wait a bit,” he exclaimed, “I’ll make still more certain. Can I borrow your motor-bike sir?” he asked the superintendent. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes—or less.” The superintendent nodded. “All right, Colson.” “I’ll wait till he comes back,” said the Canon. “I am anxious, for certain reasons, to see this young man set at liberty before I go home.” “I’m glad you’re staying,” said the superintendent, who was examining one of the Canon’s cigars. “I want to have a talk with you about this. I see what you mean. This is a brand I don’t know at all.” “I don’t suppose you do,” replied the Canon. “They are not on the market. A Spanish friend of mine sent them me direct from Cuba. They’re something very special.” “Why didn’t you say this at the inquest, sir?” The Canon hesitated. “Well—er—I really was so very much taken aback at Norwood’s manner—I am not accustomed to be spoken to like that—in public. And it made me forget what I should otherwise have said.” Again the superintendent addressed him in sorrowful rebuke: “Oh, Canon Fittleworth! You really _ought_ to have told the jury—or even if you forgot it at that moment, you _might_ have told us. See the trouble to which you have put us.” The worthy Canon bristled a little. “Why didn’t you come to me?” he asked. “Well—sir—when we saw what sort of a brand it was, fairly ordinary, we didn’t think it worth while.” “Ah,” said the Canon, a twinkle in his eye now, “see the trouble you have given yourselves! If you’d only remembered that I _said_ it was a particular brand!” “Come, Canon,” interposed the Chief Constable with a laugh, “we mustn’t get acrimonious about it. It’s a little mistake on both sides. But now what you’ve got to do is to try to remember if anyone else but yourself smoked cigars taken from that box.” “Certainly,” replied the Canon, “I can remember at the moment someone who took a cigar out of my box.” “Who was it?” asked the Chief Constable eagerly. “You yourself, Renshaw—last time you dined with me. And you remarked what an excellent smoke it was.” “Ha, ha, ha,” laughed the Chief Constable. “You want to fix the murder on _me_, eh?” The Canon joined in the laugh. “Circumstantial evidence, eh?” he said. “But, seriously, Canon,” went on Major Renshaw, “I don’t expect you to do it now, but I do ask you to shut yourself up in your study and make a big effort of memory. It’s wonderful how one can recall little details if one really tries. Write out the names of everyone—_everyone_ mind—even the most unlikely persons—to whom you remember you offered a cigar out of that box. And if you can call to mind anybody who took away a cigar out of your house without smoking it, that will be _most_ important.” “Very well,” replied the Canon, “I’ll do what you suggest. My circle of friends is a fairly respectable one, however, and I hope I don’t number a murderer among them.”