“He’s calling.”
“Yes, excellency?”
“Bring whisky-and-soda.”
One of the messengers rose, to fetch the drink. He had everything ready to hand, in the visitors’ wing, to avoid having to go through the house. The others pressed closer together and went on whispering. The moon pierced the clouds and lit up the garden and the pond as with a humid vapour of silent enchantment. The messenger had mixed the drink; he returned, squatted and offered it to the resident.
“Put it down,” said Van Oudijck.
The messenger stood the tumbler on the writing-table and crept away. The other messengers whispered together.
“Messenger!” cried Van Oudijck.
“Excellency.”
“What have you put in this glass?”
The man trembled and shrank away at Van Oudijck’s feet: