"That they do. He does not look like a foreigner," was the answer.
"He is Dalberg on the outside, anyway," said a third.
"Then, he is Dalberg inside, too--it starts there, with them," said the
first.
And so it went, until we reached the Inn of the Twisted Pines.
It was an old log and plaster building; of many gables and small
windows; standing back a trifle from the road, with a high-walled yard
on all four sides. I had taken the precaution, that morning, to
dispatch an orderly to apprise the landlord of our coming; and every
human being about the place was drawn up within the enclosure to greet
us. Old Boniface met us at the gateway and held my stirrup as I
dismounted.
"My poor house has had no such honor," he said, "since the time the
Great Henry stopped for breakfast on his return from the Titian War."
"Well, my good man," said I, "you doubtless don't recollect the Great
Henry's visit, but, if your supper is what we hope for, I promise you
we will honor it as highly as he did that breakfast."
"Your Highness shall be served this instant."
"Give us half an hour and a place to get rid of this dust," said I.
I fancy the Inn had been changed but little since old Henry's day; and
the big room, where our table was spread, certainly not at all. The
oak floor was bare and worn into ruts and ridges--the great beam
rafters overhead were chocolate color from smoke and age--the huge
fireplace and the wall above it were black as a half-burnt back log.
But the food! My mouth waters now at the thought of it. No crazy
French concoctions of frothy indigestibleness; but good, sweet
cooking--the supper one gets among the old families of Maryland or
Virginia. It took me back more than a score of years to my young days
on the dear old Eastern Shore.
And, in the midst of it, came the jolly Boniface, bearing, as carefully
as a mother does her first-born, three long bottles, cobwebbed and
dirty. Eighty years had they been lying in the wine-bin of the Inn,
guarding their treasure of Imperial Tokay. Now, their ward was
ended--and the supper was complete; though, in truth, it had been
complete before.
And, when we had eaten the supper and had drunk most of the Tokay, we
freshened up the glasses with what remained. Then, arising, I gave the
toast which all could drink:
"To the one we love the best!"
But, even as we drained it, there came through the open window the
clatter of horse's hoofs and, as the glasses smashed to bits among the
chimney stones, the door swung open and my senior Aide entered, hot and
dusty.
He caught my eye, halted sharply, and his hand went up in salute.
"Welcome, Colonel Bernheim," I said.
Again he saluted; then drew out an envelope and handed it to me.
"Important papers for Your Highness," he said. "They were received at
Headquarters after your departure and, as they required action
to-night, I thought it best to follow you."
With a word of apology, I walked over to the nearest window and slowly
read the letters. There were two and they were very brief. Then I
read them again--and yet again.
Those at the table had, of course, resumed their talk, but Bernheim
still stood at attention. I motioned him to me.
"These are copies," I said.
"I made them, sir, from the originals--while they were en route," he
added with a dry smile.
"And the originals?"
"Each was delivered promptly."
"You have no doubt of their genuineness?" I asked.
"Absolutely none--though, of course, I know only the handwriting of the
answer."
"Well done," said I; "well done!" Then I read the two papers again.
"Do you think he means it?" I asked, tapping the smaller paper.
"After last night, undoubtedly. And you must be there, sir--you and a
witness," said Bernheim.