We made our way—I bringing up the rear. Anthony fished in his pocket and produced the cigar stub that he had so carefully preserved. He passed it on to our companion. “See that cigar end, Baddeley? That was found on the edge of this wash-stand basin—I found it there, and on this occasion I do know where it was lying.” He pointed to the spot. “And I’ll tell you this”—he continued. “As far as either of us can say—we don’t think it’s one of Sir Charles Considine’s—it’s certainly not one of his customary brand.”
“Been smoked by a man with jolly good teeth,” remarked the Inspector as he studied it closely. “Prescott himself had excellent teeth—gentlemen.”
“Yes—that’s a distinct possibility—I admit that,” replied Anthony. “Just a piece of absent-mindedness on his part might account for its presence there.”
Baddeley nodded. “Was he a cigar smoker? Can you tell me?”
“What do you mean?” I broke in. “Habitually—or occasionally?”
“Either!”
“Well,” I uttered, “he’d smoke a cigar after dinner if Sir Charles or anybody offered him one—I can tell you that—I’ve often seen him.”
“Just so! That’s all I meant. I’ll keep this and make a few inquiries.”
“By the way, Baddeley”—from Anthony—“you went all over the bedroom itself pretty systematically—didn’t you?”
“I did that,” replied Baddeley. “And I don’t think I missed anything.”