“This went on for weeks--might have gone on all summer but for the events which followed a day’s outing. We had spent the morning sketching, and on our way home had stood opposite a wide-open gate--a great baronial affair with a coat of arms in twisted iron, the whole flanked by two royal lamps. “‘Step inside, Master,’ said Fiddles. ‘It is hot, and there is a seat under that tree; there we will get cool.’ “‘It’s against the rules, Fiddles, and I don’t know these people.’ “‘Then I’ll introduce you.’ “He was half-way across the grass by this time and within reach of a wooden bench, when an old lady stepped out from behind a tree--a real old aristocrat in black silk and white ruffles. She had a book in her hand, and had evidently been reading. “You should have seen the bow Fiddles gave her, and the courtesy she returned. “‘Madame the Baroness,’ said the rascal, with an irradiating smile as I approached them, ‘has been good enough to ask us to accompany her to the house. Permit me, Madame, to present my friend, a distinguished American painter who is visiting our country, and who was so entranced at the beauty of your grounds and the regal splendor of your gate and château that rather than disappoint him--’ “‘You are both doubly welcome, gentlemen,’ ‘This way, please,’ replied the old lady with a dip of her aristocratic head; and before I knew it we were seated in an oak-panelled dining-room with two servants in livery tumbling over each other in their efforts to find the particular wine best suited to our palates. “Fiddles sipped his Rudesheimer with the air of a connoisseur, blinking at the ceiling now and then after the manner of expert wine tasters, and complimenting the old lady meanwhile on the quality of the vintage. I confined myself to a glass of sherry and a biscuit, while Fiddles, rising from his seat, later on, stood enraptured before this portrait and that, commenting on their coloring, ending by drawing an ancient book from the library and going into ecstasies over the binding and type. “On our way home to the inn from the chateau there was, so far as I could see, no change in Fiddles’s manner. Neither was his speech or gait at all affected by the bottle of Rudesheimer (and he managed to get away with it all). I mention this because it is vitally important to what follows. Only once did he seem at all excited, and that was when he passed the cobbler’s corner. But then he was always excited when he passed the cobbler seated at work--so much so sometimes that I have seen him shake his fist at him. To-day he merely tightened his jaw, stopped for a moment as if determined to step in and have it out with him (the cobbler, I afterward found out, was to leave the village for good the next day, his trade having fallen off, owing to his being so unpopular), and then, as if changing his mind, followed along after me, muttering: ‘Spy--informer--beast--’ as I had often heard him do before.