“What then? Don’t you think he would pick it up again and finish his smoke rather than leave it lying there?”
“Possibly,” I responded.
“Rather strange it hasn’t been removed,” he reflected. “Haven’t any servants been here since the murder?”
“Perhaps they did the bedroom and didn’t trouble to come in here.”
He picked up the portion of cigar. As he had remarked it had certainly not been smoked to the point of necessary relinquishment.
“Remember what Mary Considine told us, Bill? Not long ago?”
“How do you mean?” I said.
“On the third occasion that she fancied Prescott was being watched or followed she went into the garden where she imagined the watcher to be, and detected the smell of cigar smoke. Nothing like conclusive, I know—but certainly pointing in the same direction.”
“What brand is it?” I asked.
Anthony demurred. “I am well aware that the immortal Holmes had published a brochure on the various kinds of tobacco ash—I really forget the number he mentioned—but alas! I am unable to keep pace with him there. It looks an ordinary type—I can tell you one thing—it isn’t one of Sir Charles Considine’s assortment—I’ve had too many not to know that. Still I’ll hang onto it.” He put it carefully away in his pocket.