He dropped down on the top step, settled his back against one of the roof posts, and took out a cigarette case. He was right where the light shone on him, and I could see he had a serious, glum look which made me think he still "had a mad on me" as they say on the east side. That didn't trouble me; people getting mad when they've a reason to never does, and he'd reason enough, poor dear.
Puffing out a long shoot of smoke, he said:
"I've come over to speak to you about that idea of mine—that cigar band I told you about."
"Oh," I answered, "you've got round to that, have you?"
"I have, or perhaps you might say half way around."
"Well, I'm the whole way. I've spent three days getting there."
"I thought you'd beat me to it. What have you arrived at?"
"The certainty that the man who dropped the band was the thief."
"We're agreed at last. Have you gone far enough round to come to a suspect?"
"No, I'm stuck there."