“You do know then?”
“Ouardi told me we had with us a liqueur made by some monks.”
“This is it, and very excellent it is. I have tasted it in Tunis.”
“But then why did you hesitate to take it here?”
He lifted his glass up to the lamp. The light shone on its contents, showing that the liquid was pale green.
“Madame,” he said, “the Trappists of El-Largani have a fine property. They grow every sort of things, but their vineyards are specially famous, and their wines bring in a splendid revenue. This is their only liqueur, this Louarine. It, too, has brought in a lot of money to the community, but when what they have in stock at the monastery now is exhausted they will never make another franc by Louarine.”
“But why not?”
“The secret of its manufacture belonged to one monk only. At his death he was to confide it to another whom he had chosen.”
“And he died suddenly without—”
“Madame, he didn’t die.”