“Thank you.”
The self-invited guest took one. He sniffed it, broke the paper wrapping, and crumbled some of the tobacco between finger and thumb.
“Ah, those Greeks!” he said sadly. “They simply can’t go straight. This brand of Turk used to be made of a tobacco grown on a slope above Salonica. A strip of sun-baked soil built up a reputation which is now being bartered for filthy lucre by the use of Egyptian ‘fillings.’”
“You’re a connoisseur, Mr. Hawknose—try these,” said Hart, proffering a case, from which the detective drew a cigarette, throwing the other one aside.
“Why ‘Hawknose’?” he inquired.
“A blend. First syllable of Hawkshaw and second of Furneaux—the latter Anglicized, of course.”
“And vulgarized.”
“You prefer Furshaw, perhaps?”
“Either effort is feeble for a man who can write about South America, and be lucid. Do you smoke this stuff, may I ask?” While talking, he had smelt and destroyed the second cigarette.
“If it’s a fair question, what the devil do you smoke?” cried Hart.