That Breen, with his reputation for old Madeira and his supposed
acquaintance with the intricacies of a Maryland kitchen, would
outclass them both, had been whispered a dozen times since the
receipt of his invitation, and he knew it. Hence the alert boy,
the chef in the white cap, and hence the seesawing on the hearth-
rug.
"Like it, Crossbin?" asked Breen.
Parkins had just passed down the table with a dust covered bottle
which he handled with the care of a collector fingering a
peachblow vase. The precious fluid had been poured into that
gentleman's glass and its contents were now within an inch of his
nose.
The moment was too grave for instant reply; Mr. Crossbin was
allowing the aroma to mount to the innermost recesses of his
nostrils. It had only been a few years since he had performed this
same trick with a gourd suspended from a nail in his father's back
kitchen, overlooking a field of growing corn; but that fact was
not public property--not here in New York.
"Yes--smooth, and with something of the hills in it.
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