One of them calls the waiter, and orders a glass of whisky.
"What is the number of your room, sir?" asks the waiter, having put the whisky and water-jug on the table.
"No matter, waiter; don't put it on the bill. Here is the money."
"Very clever, that Caledonian," said I to myself, as I noted the wink to the waiter and the glance thrown to the other occupant of the table.
True it is, Scripta manent!
If his wife accidentally puts her hand on his hotel bill in the pocket of his coat, there is no harm done—no sign of any but the most innocent articles.
Another time I was in a Scotchman's library.
While waiting for my host, who was to rejoin me there, I had a look at his books, most of which treated of theology.
Two volumes, admirably bound, attracted my gaze. They were marked on the back—one, Old Testament, the other, New Testament. I tried to take down the first volume; but, to my surprise, the second moved with it. Were the two volumes fixed together? or were they stuck by accident? Not suspecting any mystery, I pulled hard. The Old Testament and the New Testament were in one, and came together. The handsome binding was nothing but the cover of a box of cigars. No more Testament than there is on the palm of my hand: cigars—first-rate cigars—nothing but cigars, placed there under the protection of the holy patriarchs.
I had time to put all in place again before my host came; but I was not at my ease. I was quite innocent, of course; but—I don't know why—when one has discovered a secret, one feels guilty of having taken something that belongs to another.