“It’s a pity that the ‘Trichy’ is such a poisonous beast,” he remarked, taking up one of the cheroots and sniffing at it delicately. “There is no other cigar like it, to a really abandoned smoker.” He laid the cigar back in the box and continued: “I think I shall treat myself to one after dinner to celebrate the occasion.”

“What occasion?” I asked.

“The completion of the Blackmore case. I am just going to write to Marchmont advising him to enter a caveat.”

“Do you mean to say that you have discovered a flaw in the will, after all?”

“A flaw!” he exclaimed. “My dear Jervis, that second will is a forgery.”

I stared at him in amazement; for his assertion sounded like nothing more or less than arrant nonsense.