And then the climax flitted into sight, masquerading as a barrel of claret. The claret came from Bordeaux. It was Léoville Poyferré, 1899. Not a line of explanation came with it, but all charges were prepaid. I wrote to the shippers. A Monsieur had bought the wine and ordered it to be consigned to me. Readers of this story will say that I ought to have thought of Johnson. I didn't. I thanked effusively half a dozen persons in turn, who had not sent the claret; then, hopelessly befogged, I had the wine bottled.
However, Johnson sent the wine, for he told me so. I had been passing a few days at Blois, and was staring at the Fragonard which hangs in the gallery of the château, when a languid voice said, "This is the best thing here."
"Hullo, Johnson!" I exclaimed.
"Hullo!" said he.
He had recognised me first, and addressed the remark about the picture to me. Nobody else was near us. We shook hands solemnly, eyeing each other, noting the changes. Johnson appeared to be prosperous, but slightly Gallicised.
"How is--Ajax?" he murmured.
"Ajax has grown fat. Can't you dine with me?"
"It's my turn. We must order a bottle of Léoville at once."
"You sent that wine," I exclaimed. There was no note of interrogation in my voice. I knew.
"Yes," he said indifferently; "it will be worth drinking in about ten years' time."