"That's g-good, sir! G-g-got him out! Well, I've got something here that I think you'll find the right sort. A drop of real g-g-genuine '58—c-c-comet year, you know, sir. I don't offer it to many gentlemen."
He carefully poured out a glassful and held it up to the light.
Mr. Bascombe sniffed it, took a long sip, and then set down the wineglass with a wink.
"A little bit of orlright," was his verdict. "Have a glass yourself, landlord?"
"Thank you, sir; I don't mind if I do."
While he was translating his words into action Mr. Bascombe opened the cigar-box, which was full of long, light brown Havanas.
"I d-don't know if these are too large, sir?" observed the landlord. "I can g-g-get you a smaller brand if you pre-prefer it."
"Don't you trouble yourself," replied his obliging guest.
He selected one, bit off the end, and, lighting it with a match from a stand on the mantelpiece, blew out a thick cloud of fragrant smoke. It was the supreme moment of his adventure. He felt that Fate had nothing more to offer him.
"N-no news of the convict yet, sir," remarked the landlord. "The whole of P-Princetown's out hunting for him."