‘Yes,’ said Babylon, ‘the best champagne is there--a very special Sillery, as exquisite as you will find anywhere. But I see, my friend, that you fall into the common error of putting champagne first among wines. That distinction belongs to Burgundy. You have old Burgundy in that cellar, Mr Racksole, which cost me--how much do you think?--eighty pounds a bottle. Probably it will never be drunk,’ he added with a sigh. ‘It is too expensive even for princes and plutocrats.’ ‘Yes, it will,’ said Racksole quickly. ‘You and I will have a bottle up to-morrow.’ ‘Then,’ continued Babylon, still riding his hobby-horse, ‘there is a sample of the Rhine wine dated 1706 which caused such a sensation at the Vienna Exhibition of 1873. There is also a singularly glorious Persian wine from Shiraz, the like of which I have never seen elsewhere. Also there is an unrivalled vintage of Romanée-Conti, greatest of all modern Burgundies. If I remember right Prince Eugen invariably has a bottle when he comes to stay here. It is not on the hotel wine list, of course, and only a few customers know of it. We do not precisely hawk it about the dining-room.’ ‘Indeed!’ said Racksole. ‘Let us go inside.’ They entered the stone apartment, rendered almost sacred by the preciousness of its contents, and Racksole looked round with a strangely intent and curious air. At the far side was a grating, through which came a feeble light. ‘What is that?’ asked the millionaire sharply. ‘That is merely a ventilation grating. Good ventilation is absolutely essential.’ ‘Looks broken, doesn’t it?’ Racksole suggested and then, putting a finger quickly on Babylon’s shoulder, ‘there’s someone in the cellar. Can’t you hear breathing, down there, behind that bin?’ The two men stood tense and silent for a while, listening, under the ray of the single electric light in the ceiling. Half the cellar was involved in gloom. At length Racksole walked firmly down the central passage-way between the bins and turned to the corner at the right. ‘Come out, you villain!’ he said in a low, well-nigh vicious tone, and dragged up a cowering figure. He had expected to find a man, but it was his own daughter, Nella Racksole, upon whom he had laid angry hands. Chapter Twenty-Three FURTHER EVENTS IN THE CELLAR ‘WELL, Father,’ Nella greeted her astounded parent. ‘You should make sure that you have got hold of the right person before you use all that terrible muscular force of yours. I do believe you have broken my shoulder bone.’ She rubbed her shoulder with a comical expression of pain, and then stood up before the two men. The skirt of her dark grey dress was torn and dirty, and the usually trim Nella looked as though she had been shot down a canvas fire-escape. Mechanically she smoothed her frock, and gave a straightening touch to her hair.