They entered the tiny enclosure of Helen’s Bower, and Wendover’s eye was at once caught by a sparkle from the grass near one of the chairs. He stepped across and picked up a silver cigar-case. Sir Clinton held out his hand for it and glanced at the outside.
“It’s got a monogram, E.S., engraved on it,” he said. “This is obviously friend Ernest’s. You remember he said something about smoking a cigar here. He may have laid the case on his knee and jerked it off without noticing it when he started on his Marathon for safety.”
He held the case in his hand and seemed to give careful consideration to some point. At last he came to a decision and turned to Wendover.
“I think we’ll say nothing about this for a day or two, Squire. I may want to send this case up to London to have it examined, perhaps. I can’t say yet. But in the meanwhile we’ll not mention that we found it. Friend Ernest can take his cigars from the box, in the meantime. That’s no great hardship for him.”
“You think the murderer may have picked it up, and you’ll get his finger-prints from it? It’s a nice smooth surface.”
Sir Clinton looked up from the case with a gleam of amusement on his features.
“You’re in charge of the Speculation, Surmise, and Conjecture Department of this firm, Squire. I’m only a humble clerk in the Mum and Dumb Section—telegraphic address: ‘Tongue-tied.’ ”
Wendover accepted the tacit rebuke without protest.
“Oh, have it your own way,” he said, “I forgot I wasn’t to expect anything from you.”
Sir Clinton wrapped the cigar-case carefully in his handkerchief and stowed it in his pocket before doing anything further.