“Where the devil are my keys?” murmured the Squire petulantly.

“In your dressing-gown, I expect, Sir. I’ll look for them, Sir. Is it the 1880 port that I’m to get?”

“Listen, Monk,” said Mr. Urquhart gravely. “How many bottles of my father’s Malmsey have I got left?”

The man straightened his back with a jerk, and Wolf noticed that his eyebrows went up as if some extravagant and very foolish transaction were in the air.

“Some half-a-dozen, Sir. Them what’s in the walnut chest are the last. We locked them up, sir, after Candlemas night, when you and young Mr. Redfern looked at they portfolios of antiquities.”