‘Very carelessly, perhaps. And moreover he would be extremely unlikely to wipe off all the stuff; some of it has been ingeniously placed just on the inside edge of the rim. Besides, suppose he forgot to wipe the bottle?’ ‘Prince Eugen is always served at dinner by Hans. It is an honour which the faithful old fellow reserves for himself.’ ‘But suppose Hans--’ Racksole stopped. ‘Hans an accomplice! My dear Racksole, the suggestion is wildly impossible.’ That night Prince Aribert dined with his august nephew in the superb dining-room of the Royal apartments. Hans served, the dishes being brought to the door by other servants. Aribert found his nephew despondent and taciturn. On the previous day, when, after the futile interview with Sampson Levi, Prince Eugen had despairingly threatened to commit suicide, in such a manner as to make it ‘look like an accident’, Aribert had compelled him to give his word of honour not to do so. ‘What wine will your Royal Highness take?’ asked old Hans in his soothing tones, when the soup was served. ‘Sherry,’ was Prince Eugen’s curt order. ‘And Romanée-Conti afterwards?’ said Hans. Aribert looked up quickly. ‘No, not to-night. I’ll try Sillery to-night,’ said Prince Eugen. ‘I think I’ll have Romanée-Conti, Hans, after all,’ he said. ‘It suits me better than champagne.’ The famous and unsurpassable Burgundy was served with the roast. Old Hans brought it tenderly in its wicker cradle, inserted the corkscrew with mathematical precision, and drew the cork, which he offered for his master’s inspection. Eugen nodded, and told him to put it down. Aribert watched with intense interest. He could not for an instant believe that Hans was not the very soul of fidelity, and yet, despite himself, Racksole’s words had caused him a certain uneasiness. At that moment Prince Eugen murmured across the table: ‘Aribert, I withdraw my promise. Observe that, I withdraw it.’ Aribert shook his head emphatically, without removing his gaze from Hans. The white-haired servant perfunctorily dusted his napkin round the neck of the bottle of Romanée-Conti, and poured out a glass. Aribert trembled from head to foot. Eugen took up the glass and held it to the light. ‘Don’t drink it,’ said Aribert very quietly. ‘It is poisoned.’ ‘Poisoned!’ exclaimed Prince Eugen. ‘Poisoned, sire!’ exclaimed old Hans, with an air of profound amazement and concern, and he seized the glass. ‘Impossible, sire. I myself opened the bottle. No one else has touched it, and the cork was perfect.’ ‘I tell you it is poisoned,’ Aribert repeated.