“The cigars are genuine Havanas,” he said.  “A birthday present from a maiden aunt, who is wise enough to judge the quality of tobacco by the price.  Here, too, are Virginian, Turkish and Egyptian cigarettes.”

Winter inspected the cigars gravely.

“By Jove!” he cried, his big eyes bulging in joyous surprise.  “Last year’s crop from the Don Juan y Guerrero plantation.  Treasure that aunt of yours, Mr. Theydon.  None but herself can be her equal.”

Theydon saw that the little man did not follow his chief’s example.

“Don’t you smoke?” he said.

“No, but if you’ll not be horrified, I would like to smell one of those Turks.”

“Smell it?”

“Yes.  That is the only way to enjoy the aroma and avoid nicotine poisoning.  My worthy chief dulls a sound intellect by the cigar habit.  What is worse, he excites a nervous system which is normally somewhat bovine.  You, also, I take it, are a confirmed smoker, so both of you are at cross-purposes already.”

Furneaux’s voice was pitched in the curious piping note usually associated with comic relief in a melodrama, but his wizened face was solemn as a red Indian’s.  It was Theydon who smiled.  His preconceived ideas as to the appearance and demeanor of the London detective were shattered.  Really, there was no need to take these two seriously.

Winter, while lighting the cigar, grinned amiably at his colleague.  Furneaux passed a cigarette to and fro under his nostrils and sniffed.  Theydon reached for a pipe and tobacco jar and drew up a chair.

“Well,” he said, “it is not my business to criticise your methods.  I have very little to tell you.  I suppose Bates—­”

“The really important thing is this car which followed you tonight,” broke in Winter.  “The details are fresh in your memory.  What type of car was it?  Did you see the driver and occupants?  What’s its number?”

Theydon had not expected these questions.  He looked his astonishment.

“Ha!” cackled Furneaux.  “What did I tell you?”

“O, shut up!” growled Winter.  “I am asking just what you yourself are itching to know.”

“May I take it that the car has not been dogging me by your instructions?” said Theydon.  He was inclined to be skeptical, yet the Chief Inspector seemed to have spoken quite candidly.

“Yes,” said Winter, meeting the other’s glance squarely.  “We have no reason on earth to doubt the truth of anything you have said, or may say, with regard to this inquiry.  The car is not ours.  This is the first we have heard of it.  We accepted your word, Mr. Theydon, that you were dining with a friend.  Perhaps you will tell us now what his name is and where he lives.”

Theydon hesitated the fraction of a second.  That, he knew instantly, was a blunder, so he proceeded to rectify it.

“I was dining with Mr. James Creighton Forbes, of No. 11, Fortescue Square,” be said.  “Probably you are acquainted with his name, so you will realize that if my evidence proves of the slightest value I would not like any reference to be made to the fact that I was his guest tonight.”