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were hanging neatly in the closet.
    “I hope you appreciate what I did for you,” Nell said when he went downstairs for a beer.
    Conrad replied that she hadn’t done anything for him. “You just pursued your self-interest. What I appreciate is your ability to recognize it.—I suppose you know this Saturday is red-bird night for the Hill employees?”
    “What of it?”
    “They drink a lot of beer, don’t they?”
    “That means nothing to me,” Nell replied, making a sour face and producing in the process another chin or two from her ample neck. “Charles orders all the beer from the Prominence Inn—and gets a cut too, I’m sure.”
    Conrad waited till she had finished grumbling, and then told her that news must travel slow. “I’m the cook for red-bird night, and I’m doing all the ordering.”
    When that had soaked in he asked for another stein—and neglected to put any money on the bar.
    “I’m expecting a friend,” Conrad said, “and we are going to discuss the ordering of beer. He will tell me where I can get the best bargain.”
    At this Nell looked distressed. She said she would sell him the beer very cheap, and she named the price per keg. Conrad laughed at the figure.
    Long before Paul arrived Nell had agreed to Conrad’s terms, which included a month’s free rent.
    Conrad bought Paul a beer and explained why he had left the message at Ben’s: on his day off he always planned to dine in town, at the Prominence Inn, and he wanted Paul to make certain arrangements for him. He would have to talk to the head waiter and to the cook—did he know Charles?
    “I’ve known him for years,” Paul answered. “He recommended me for the present job I have with the Renfrews. He’s a very good cook, second only to Brogg.”
    “If you take a recipe to him, will he follow the directions to the letter?”
    Paul wrinkled his snub nose. “I’m not sure I know what you mean, but I suppose if you pay him he will.”
    “I’ll pay him. Do they have private dining rooms there?”
    “They have one, but I don’t think anyone ever uses it.”
    Paul’s wonderment continued to grow as Conrad explained what he wanted him to do.
    After about an hour—with a small packet of Conrad’s money in his pocket, some very specific instructions in his head, and several carefully detailed recipes in his hand—Paul stood up. It was getting late. “The Renfrews have only a maid and I have to do the shopping myself.”
    Conrad suggested they start shopping together. “I will show you how to get your accounts down.”
    Paul looked pleased. He said Mrs. Renfrew had already told him he was spending too much. “She’s worse than Mrs. Hill. But from the things I’ve heard the shopkeepers say about you, I don’t suppose you’ve had a run-in with her over the accounts.”
    Conrad admitted that was true. “Quite the contrary. And by the way, she no longer does the accounts on Sunday. She sleeps, as does the rest of the family. Only Ester stays awake, playing with the cats.”
    As Paul left, his expression said plainly that wonders would never cease.
    Conrad stayed at the Shepard’s Inn, drinking until late at night.
    He had brought with him a jar of tangy paté, and had set it on the bar with some crackers.
    “That’s not for you,” he told Nell, who was looking greedily at the paté. “It’s for the customers—if any come in here . . . I’m expecting two friends.”
    Conrad drank by himself until the fishermen arrived.
    “Drinks, Nell!” he called. “And put this package on ice . . .”
    And after Conrad had bought the men a few more rounds: “Do you do any hunting?” he asked. “Or do you know anyone who does? I need some birds . . .”

10
    All day long the open land beyond the mill rang with the firing of guns, and the shouts and laughter of men drinking and having a good time. The shooting was excellent, and in a steady stream the men repaired to the cooking camp at the edge of the wood, exchanging their