Gibbous House 74

I returned with an Armagnac which someone had hidden behind a row of false spines whose books' contents, had they existed, would have made interesting reading. The 'books' were of homologous design as though for a private edition of some collection; all but one spine bore the legend Collected Writings on Alcoholic Beverages and an appropriate volume number. On noting the spines themselves were as new, the experimental hooking of a finger on the only title of exception revealed the Armagnac's hiding place, as a hidden lever was activated. It would have been an exceptionally captivating tome, purporting to be 'Les Quarante Vertues d'Armagnac' by one Cardinal Vital Dufor.

The reporter started from a slumberous ease as I placed the glass on the iron table. He looked uncertain as to where he found himself and looked blankly as I wished him:

'Good health, Mr Allan.'

He blinked severally before replying,

'Quite, and your own, Mr Moffatt.'

He drained his glass at a draught and replaced it upon the table.

I offered to recharge his glass but he declined, staring pensively over his eyeglasses. Thinking to pass the time in conversation, I remarked on his unusual attire.

'Manners do not maketh man, Moffatt, but clothes.' he said.

He seemed unstruck by the question as to what manner of man his own made him, while I replied:

'I believe you may be correct, Mr Allen. A man is known for what he is by his dress; from the beggar in his rags to the emperor in his purple and all other stations in between are known by their buttoned and sewn signifiers.'

He considered for a moment:

'But I do believe we might consider more the physiognomy as the clew to character. I have made study of lower characters in Paris and... elsewhere. A noble forehead is rarely seen upon a villain, in my experience. Look to yourself.'

It would have made a cat laugh, the nonsense the fellow spouted. Nevertheless, I did not expect him to react so to what I said in reply to it.

'So, you would know a villain, if you found his corpse in another man's finest clothes?'

The man's customary pallor was empurpled by some fit of apoplexy or rage and amid the choking I could discern a name: 'Griswold'. I watched the fellow recover himself with some interest, whilst considering what a truly peculiar fellow this Edgar Allan was.

At last, Maccabi and Miss Pardoner arrived bearing the necessities for luncheon en plein air, which were shortly revealed as a cold collation of meats and cheeses. I presumed Maccabi would not be joining us for luncheon, therefore. Miss Pardoner needed no invitation and sat predictably close to the reporter, although I had stood to withdraw the chair next to mine.