Cheyne hesitated, but Dangle insisting, he demonstrated to his satisfaction that his companions drank the same mixture as himself. Then Dangle opened the cigar box.
“These are specially good, though I say it myself. The box was given to Blessington by a rich West Indian planter. We only smoke them on state occasions, such as the present. Won’t you take one?”
Cheyne felt it would be churlish to refuse, and soon the three were puffing such tobacco as Cheyne at all events had seldom before smoked. Sime then excused himself, explaining that though business might be neglected it could not be entirely ignored, and Cheyne, thereupon taking the hint, said that he too must be off.
“Tomorrow we shall be kept late in town,” Dangle explained, as they stood on the doorstep, “but the next evening we shall be here. Will you and Miss Merrill come down and report progress, and let us have a council of war?”
Cheyne agreed and was turning away, when Dangle made a sudden gesture.
“By George! I was forgetting,” he cried. “Wait a second, Mr. Cheyne.”
He disappeared back into the house, returning a moment later with a small purse, which he handed to Cheyne.
“Do you happen to know if that is Miss Merrill’s?” he inquired. “It was found beside the chair in which we placed her last night when we carried her in.”
Cheyne recognized the article at once. He had frequently seen Joan use it.
“Yes, it’s hers,” he answered, to which Dangle replied asking if he would take it for her.