"Ah," he said, "I have done fifty, without food, over the
roughest and mossiest mountains. I lived on what I shot, and for
drink I had spring-water. Nay, I am forgetting. There was
another beverage, which I wager you have never tasted. Heard you
ever, sir, of that eau de vie which the Scots call usquebagh?
It will comfort a traveller as no thin Italian wine will comfort
him. By my soul, you shall taste it. Charlotte, my dear, bid
Oliphant fetch glasses and hot water and lemons. I will give Mr.
Hervey-Townshend a sample of the brew. You English are all
tetes-de-fer, sir, and are worthy of it."

The old man's face had lighted up, and for the moment his air had
the jollity of youth. I would have accepted the entertainment
had I not again caught Madame's eye. It said, unmistakably and
with serious pleading, "Decline." I therefore made my excuses,
urged fatigue, drowsiness, and a delicate stomach, bade my host
good-night, and in deep mystification left the room.

Enlightenment came upon me as the door closed. There in the
threshold stood the manservant whom they called Oliphant, erect
as a sentry on guard. The sight reminded me of what I had once
seen at Basle when by chance a Rhenish Grand Duke had shared the
inn with me. Of a sudden a dozen clues linked together--the
crowned notepaper, Scotland, my aunt Hervey's politics, the tale
of old wanderings.

"Tell me," I said in a whisper, "who is the Count d'Albani, your
master?" and I whistled softly a bar of "Charlie is my
darling."