"Will you kindly tell me just what you mean, Mr. Theydon?" said Winter.
"Why? Is it news to you that a gray limousine car stalked me from Waterloo to—to my friend's house, waited there three hours or more, and has carefully escorted me home? I dislike that sort of thing. Moreover, it strikes me as stupid. I didn't kill Mrs. Lester. It will save you and me a good deal of time and worry if you accept that plain statement as a fact."
"Won't you sit down?" said Winter quietly. "And—may I smoke? I didn't like to ask Bates for permission to light up in your absence."
Theydon was not to be outdone in coolness. He opened a corner cupboard and produced various boxes.
"The cigars are genuine Havanas," he said. "A birthday present from a maiden aunt, who is wise enough to judge the quality of tobacco by the price. Here, too, are Virginian, Turkish and Egyptian cigarettes."
Winter inspected the cigars gravely.
"By Jove!" he cried, his big eyes bulging in joyous surprise. "Last year's crop from the Don Juan y Guerrero plantation. Treasure that aunt of yours, Mr. Theydon. None but herself can be her equal."
Theydon saw that the little man did not follow his chief's example.
"Don't you smoke?" he said.
"No, but if you'll not be horrified, I would like to smell one of those Turks."