“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.

I thought a bit—­then I took out my watch.  It was just six o’clock.