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if you do right with money, it will double itself, and then doubled, will double itself again. Three thousand is six thousand, and six thousand is twelve—”
    But the man is a child, thought Mr. Kwalkee, in spite of all his blond size.
    â€œYes, it sounds good,” Mr. Kwalkee agreed, appearing to have lost all interest in the matter, speaking to John Preswick as a host speaks to a guest, the courtesy due in any tavern. “Yes, there are places to invest money. The sea is a broad field. But it is growing late. We will drink one more bottle, a vintage of my own, and while we drink we will talk. Sit here, and I will fetch it.”
    â€œBut you must let me pay,” John Preswick protested. “While I have money, no man shall buy me food or drink. I will taste your best, but you must let me pay.”
    The innkeeper smiled. “Very well. You shall pay—yes, by all means. Now I will be back in a moment.”
    Left alone, John Preswick fingered the belt under his shirt. To himself, he muttered: “Yes, it is safe, safe enough, and where no man would dare to search.” He was already a little befuddled with much wine, and inclined to drowsiness. The thought of bed waiting above was very comforting.
    Then the landlord returned, setting down upon the table an uncapped bottle. “From the seventies,” he explained. “It is that old! Hold it in the front of your mouth overlong.” He smiled. “And we will talk of—money.”
    With the air of a connoisseur, John Preswick sipped it, nodding. “Perhaps a little of the chartreuse. It is old and soft. But the taste—”
    â€œThe age. One must expect some of that with the French.” But he had forgotten that it was a vintage of his own! He could dismiss the fear, dealing with such a fool as this.
    â€œHot!—is it not hot here?”
    â€œHot for April. Each year the weather is worse. North it is different—”
    John Preswick drained his glass and put it down. “Now as to the matter—” His voice trailed away, and he passed the back of his hand across his lips.
    â€œOf course,” said the landlord, “if one is a fool, one need not invest at all. Money grows with those who know how to care for it—hot with fools.”
    But John Preswick had come to his feet with a quick exclamation. He was staring at the bottle, which he had lifted to pour himself another drink.
    â€œOf old vintage, did you say? Of your own vintage, did you say? Of French vintage?”
    Looking up at him, the innkeeper smiled wonderingly. “Yes, from before the Revolution. Only a moment ago, when I opened it, the odor of gods came out. French or American, it is a good wine.”
    â€œYou lie, you pig! What is your scheme, I do not know, but you lie! I drank from that same bottle a week past when I was in Charleston, and then I nicked the mouth in a way I cannot forget. It took the form of a star. It is the same bottle!” Lifting the bottle, he held it to his nostrils.
    â€œDrugged!” he exclaimed, his face lighting momentarily. “And you are a man of trust! And I am a fool! Stand back, I say!” From his belt, he tore a knife, and he was holding it before him.
    â€œStand back!”
    It was late, and they were alone in the room, except for the leaping fire and the tables, bare and yellow. Swinging from beam to beam, throwing grotesque shadows, the light of the fire mocked him. It marched in a weird circle—red, blue, orange, black even; he flung it away with a savage gesture of his head.
    The table between them, the landlord faced him, leaning forward, grinning, nodding. “Money, my friend, is not for fools. An inn is. I drugged you. You feel it, eh? In a moment you will not be able to keep to those stout feet of yours. But how do you know it is not poison—?”
    â€œEven here—there is a law. You will pay for this. You swine, you—”
    â€œCurse me!