on one side, and in a hushed voice had asked this most
portentous question:

"Which Madeira, Marse Richard?"

The only answer would have been a lifting of the
eyebrow and an imperceptible nod of his master's head
in the direction of the mahogany cellaret.

Malachi understood.

It was the Tiernan of '29.

And that worthy "Keeper of the Privy Seal and
Key," pausing for an instant with his brown jug of
a head bent before the cellaret, as a Mohammedan
bends his head before a wall facing Mecca, had there-
upon unlocked its secret chambers and had produced
a low, deeply cut decanter topped by a wondrous glass
stopper. This he had placed, with conscious importance,
on a small table before the two or three devotees
gathered together in its honor, and the host,
removing the stopper, had filled the slender glasses
with a vintage that had twice rounded the Cape--
a wine of such rare lineage and flavor that those who
had the honor of its acquaintance always spoke of it
as one of the most precious possessions of the town--
a wine, too, of so delicate an aroma that those within
the charmed circle invariably lifted the thin glasses
and dreamily inhaled its perfume before they granted