"All right. Have your way." He sat down at the table and
scribbled a check, which he tore from the book, but he refrained
from handing it to his companion. "After all, since we are to be
on such terms, Mr. Altamont," said he, "I don't see why I should
trust you any more than you trust me. Do you understand?" he
added, looking back over his shoulder at the American. "There's
the check upon the table. I claim the right to examine that
parcel before you pick the money up."

The American passed it over without a word. Von Bork undid a
winding of string and two wrappers of paper. Then he sat dazing
for a moment in silent amazement at a small blue book which lay
before him. Across the cover was printed in golden letters
Practical Handbook of Bee Culture. Only for one instant did the
master spy glare at this strangely irrelevant inscription. The
next he was gripped at the back of his neck by a grasp of iron,
and a chloroformed sponge was held in front of his writhing face.

"Another glass, Watson!" said Mr. Sherlock Holmes as he extended
the bottle of Imperial Tokay.

The thickset chauffeur, who had seated himself by the table,
pushed forward his glass with some eagerness.

"It is a good wine, Holmes."

"A remarkable wine, Watson. Our friend upon the sofa has assured
me that it is from Franz Josef's special cellar at the
Schoenbrunn Palace. Might I trouble you to open the window, for