r chicken."

"By the way, how did you know I had chickens in store, and a spit on
which to roast them?"

"I looked you over at five-thirty this morning, having traveled from
London by the mail train. I must lecture you on your inefficient
window-catches, Mr. Grant. Several self-respecting burglars of my
acquaintance would give your house the go-by as being too easy. And, one
other matter. I suggest that any man who mentions the Steynholme murder
again before the coffee arrives shall be fined a sovereign for each
offense, such fine, or fines, to form a fund for the relief of his
hearers. _Cre nom d'un pipe_! Three intelligent men can surely discuss
more interesting topics while they eat!"

CHAPTER VIII

AN INTERRUPTED SYMPOSIUM

"Have a cigarette," said Grant to Furneaux, when the blinds were drawn, a
lamp lighted, and the sherry dispensed.

"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.

"Nothing. I'm a non-smoker. My profession demands a clear intellect, not
a brain atrophied by nicotine."

"Piffle! Carlyle and Bismarck were smokers."

"Who reads Carlyle now-a-days? And what modern German pays heed to
Bismarck's dogmas? Look at that pipe of yours. It was once a pure ivory
white. Now it is black--soiled by tobacco juice. Your lungs are slowly
emulating it, and your wits will cloud in time. Read Tolstoi, Mr. Hart.
He will teach you how nicotine deadens the conscience."

"At last I know why I smoke like a Thames tug," laughed Hart, "but I'm