The Rev. Simon chuckled, a startling chuckle it was. It distorted his whole countenance; made another man of him; turned a not ill-looking gentleman into a hideous thing. It was the chuckle of a lunatic. It came and went in, as it were, a twinkling of the eye; but the Rev. Simon Chasuble had only to indulge in that sinister chuckle in public once, and the incumbency of St Ursula's Church would there and then be vacant.
"I'll put them in the case."
He placed the cigars carefully, one by one, in a handsome case, which had been lying beside them on the table.
"How fortunate that the secret should have been in my possession; that it should have been given to me to adapt it to so rare an end! What a power for good the adaptation places in my hands! Given the opportunity it may be mine to remove the nicotine habit for ever from the world. One whiff and the slave is gone. And none shall know from whence the blow has come. It will seem as though it has fallen from on high."
Again that dreadful chuckle, coming and going in a second, as the Rev. Simon was in the act of making the sign of the cross.
Someone tried the handle of the door; then, finding it locked, rapped upon the panel.
"Papa! papa!"
The Rev. Simon turned towards the door, a sudden look of keen suspicion in his light blue eyes. But his voice was smooth and soft. "Helena?"
"Oh, papa, another of those poor women has been murdered!"
The Rev. Simon seemed to hesitate. The fashion of his countenance was changed. It became unrelenting, pitiless. His voice became harsh and measured.