THE BOTTLE OF WINE
AS regards Theodore Racksole， who was to have caught his man from the outside of the cellar， he made his way as rapidly as possible from the wine-cellars， up to the ground floor， out of the hotel by the quadrangle， through the quadrangle， and out into the top of Salisbury Lane. Now， owing to the vastness of the structure of the Grand Babylon， the mere distance thus to be traversed amounted to a little short of a quarter of a mile， and， as it included a number of stairs， about two dozen turnings， and several passages which at that time of night were in darkness more or less complete， Racksole could not have been expected to accomplish the journey in less than five minutes. As a matter of fact， six minutes had elapsed before he reached the top of Salisbury Lane， because he had been delayed nearly a minute by some questions addressed to him by a muddled and whisky-laden guest who had got lost in the corridors. As everybody knows， there is a sharp short bend in Salisbury Lane near the top. Racksole ran round this at good racing speed， but he was unfortunate enough to run straight up against the very policeman who had not long before so courteously supplied Jules with a match. The policeman seemed to be scarcely in so pliant a mood just then.
'Hullo！' he said， his naturally suspicious nature being doubtless aroused by the spectacle of a bareheaded man in evening dress running violently down the lane. 'What's this？ Where are you for in such a hurry？' and he forcibly detained Theodore Racksole for a moment and scrutinized his face.
'Now， officer，' said Racksole quietly， 'none of your larks， if you please.
I've no time to lose.'
'Beg your pardon， sir，' the policeman remarked， though hesitatingly and not quite with good temper， and Racksole was allowed to proceed on his way. The millionaire's scheme for trapping Jules was to get down into the little sunk yard by means of the ladder， and then to secrete himself behind some convenient abutment of brickwork until Mr Tom Jackson should have got into the cellar.
He therefore nimbly surmounted the railings - the railings of his own hotel - and was gingerly descending the ladder， when lo！ a rough hand seized him by the coat-collar and with a ferocious jerk urged him backwards. The fact was， Theodore Racksole had counted without the policeman. That guardian of the peace， mistrusting Racksole's manner， quietly followed him down the lane. The sight of the millionaire climbing the railings had put him on his mettle， and the result was the ignominious capture of Racksole. In vain Theodore expostulated， explained， anathematized. Only one thing would satisfy the stolid policeman -namely， that Racksole should return with him to the hotel and there establish his identity. If Racksole then proved to be Racksole， owner of the Grand Babylon， well and good - the policeman promised to apologize. So Theodore had no alternative but to accept the suggestion. To prove his identity was， of course， the work of only a few minutes， after which Racksole， annoyed， but cool as ever， returned to his railings， while the policeman went off to another part of his beat， where he would be likely to meet a comrade and have a chat.
In the meantime， our friend Jules， sublimely unconscious of the altercation going on outside， and of the special risk which he ran， was of course actually in the cellar， which he had reached before Racksole got to the railings for the first time. It was， indeed， a happy chance for Jules that his exit from the cellar coincided with the period during which Racksole was absent from the railings. As Racksole came down the lane for the second time， he saw a figure walking about fifty yards in front of him towards the Embankment.
Instantly he divined that it was Jules， and that the policeman had thrown him just too late. He ran， and Jules， hearing the noise of pursuit， ran also. The ex-waiter was fleet； he made direct for a certain spot in the Embankment wall， and， to the intense astonishment of Racksole， jumped clean over the wall， as it seemed， into the river. 'Is he so desperate as to commit suicide？'
Racksole exclaimed as he ran， but a second later the puff and snort of a steam launch told him that Jules was not quite driven to suicide. As the millionaire crossed the Embankment roadway he saw the funnel of the launch move out from under the river-wall. It swerved into midstream and headed towards London Bridge. There was a silent mist over the river. Racksole was helpless. . . .
Although Racksole had now been twice worsted in a contest of wits within the precincts of the Grand Babylon， once by Rocco and once by Jules， he could not fairly blame himself for the present miscarriage of his plans - a miscarriage due to the meddlesomeness of an extraneous person， combined with pure ill-fortune. He did not， therefore， permit the accident to interfere with his sleep that night.
On the following day he sought out Prince Aribert， between whom and himself there now existed a feeling of unmistakable， frank friendship， and disclosed to him the happenings of the previous night， and particularly the tampering with the bottle of Romanée-Conti.
'I believe you dined with Prince Eugen last night？'
'I did. And curiously enough we had a bottle of Romanée-Conti， an admirable wine， of which Eugen is passionately fond.'
'And you will dine with him to-night？'
