cigar.

"Hullo, Ernest," it said.

And then it seemed to pause expectantly, as though desiring some reply.
Dead silence reigned in the saloon.

"Hullo, Ernest!"

Those nearest the piano--and nobody more quickly than Jane Hubbard--now
observed that the white face of the man on the stool had grown whiter
still. His eyes gazed out glassily from under his damp brow. He looked
like a man who was seeing some ghastly sight. The audience sympathised
with him. They felt like that, too.

In all human plans there is ever some slight hitch, some little
miscalculation which just makes all the difference. A moment's thought
should have told Eustace Hignett that a half-smoked cigar was one of the
essential properties to any imitation of the eminent Mr. Tinney; but he
had completely overlooked the fact. The cigar came as an absolute
surprise to him and it could not have affected him more powerfully if it
had been a voice from the tomb. He stared at it pallidly, like Macbeth
at the ghost of Banquo. It was a strong, lively young cigar, and its
curling smoke played lightly about his nostrils. His jaw fell. His eyes
protruded. He looked for a long moment like one of those deep-sea fishes
concerning which the recent lecturer had spoken so searchingly. Then
with the cry of a stricken animal, he bounded from his seat and fled for
the deck.

There was a rustle at Billie's side as Jane Hubbard rose and followed
him. Jane was deeply stirred. Even as he sat, looking so pale and
piteous, at the piano, her big heart had gone out to him, and now, in
his moment of anguish, he seemed to bring to the surface everything that
was best and manliest in her nature. Thrusting aside with one sweep of
her powerful arm a steward who happened to be between her and the door,
she raced in pursuit.

Sam Marlowe had watched his cousin's dash for the open with a
consternation so complete that his senses seemed to have left him. A
general, deserted by his men on some stricken field, might have felt
something akin to his emotion. Of all the learned professions, the
imitation of Mr. Frank Tinney is the one which can least easily be
carried through single-handed. The man at the piano, the leader of the
orchestra, is essential. He is the life-blood of the entertainment.
Without him, nothing can be done.

For an instant Sam stood there, gaping blankly. Then the open door of
the saloon seemed to beckon an invitation. He made for it, reached it,
passed through it