“I’m sorry,” said the Canon, “but my list isn’t quite complete yet. I shall have to make a few more efforts of memory, as Major Renshaw puts it. I’m not satisfied.” “What list, sir?” “Why, the names of all the people I can remember who smoked any of my cigars.” “Oh, _that_!” exclaimed the detective. “Yes, I know. But it wasn’t about that list that I called—later on will do very well. I came to ask you for the name and address of your friend in Cuba who sent you the cigars.” “My Spanish friend. Certainly. I’ll write it down for you. What do you want it for?” he asked, as he passed it over to Colson. “Oh—it may be useful,” said the detective in a non-committal manner. “One never knows.” “Any further progress?” The Canon, of course, was interested. “You mustn’t ask me, please, sir. We’re doing all we can.” Later on that day the police sent a cablegram to Cuba, asking for certain information. Also, Colson ran up to London, and was closeted for some time with the managing director of a reputable firm of wholesale cigar importers, from whom he gathered certain details which he carefully entered in his notebook. “They’re first-rate cigars, aren’t they?” asked the managing director at the close of the interview. “Of course, there are very few of them manufactured. We keep them to ourselves.” “I don’t know anything about them in that way,” replied the detective dryly. “I haven’t smoked one.” “Haven’t you? Well, you shall then. I’ve got some of them here. Take half a dozen. Anything else I can do for you, let me know. So you know Proctor, eh? Nice little chap. Asked me to run down and see him some day.” “I’d rather you said nothing about my visit, if you do, sir. You will understand I’ve been asking you for this information in confidence.” “Quite. I won’t say a word. Not that I’m likely to see him yet awhile.” The detective agreed that the brand was an excellent one as he smoked one of the cigars on his return journey. He also read, in the evening paper, one of the aforenamed articles on the lethargy of the provincial police—and enjoyed it immensely. But, then, he was in the mood for enjoying anything just then. “By the way, Colson,” said the superintendent to him when they were in consultation that evening, “have you made any more progress with that blotting-paper puzzle, ‘Ezra’s ices’?” “Not much, sir. I think I’ve found out two or three more words. But I don’t attach importance to it. We’ve something more definite than that to go upon.” “True—but I’d bear it in mind all the same. We mustn’t neglect any detail.” “All right, sir. I’m feeling a little bit off colour,” he went on, with a grin. “I think a little fresh air will do me good. So I propose taking a day’s holiday to-morrow and spending it at Marsh Quay. I may even stay the night, sir.” “Very well, Colson,” replied the superintendent, grinning at him in return. “I hope it will set you up. Don’t get into mischief.”