When the Courteous Stranger had finished his story, the Black Prince gazed at me for a moment.
“Solario,” said he, “I will tell you the conclusion of the whole matter in a word. To him who shall deliver me from this spell, I will give five hundred thousand pieces of gold, of the money of your country. And, Solario,” he said, bending toward me and pointing at me with his finger, “I believe you are the man.”
Visions of Solario the tailor as the richest man in Vernicroft flashed before my eyes, and left me dizzy.
“It is a matter of sewing on a button,” said the Prince. “I am allowed nine tailors for the trial, on the principle that nine tailors are the equivalent of one—ahem! I beg your pardon. Eight tailors have already essayed it, and failed. You are the ninth.”
“And what has become of the other eight?” I asked, with some misgiving.
The Black Prince smiled. “You have already seen them,” said he.
“I?” I exclaimed in amazement.
Eight Tailors Who Could not Sew on a Single Button
“Four of them served our table here to-night, and the other four you have met between your shop and this room.”
“The eight black servants?” I cried.