“From France, I suppose; though it is of Italian vintage.” “I mean, how came it here? How did you get it?” “It must have come from one of the brig’s crew, of course. Very likely old Rodney brought it up, or it may have been Stephen Harley. I only know it is a very fine old wine, the like of which we do not often see.” Percy was strongly tempted to drive his mother to the wall, then and there; but second thoughts told him to hold his peace. If there should be any collusion between her and Ralph Tryon, he must know it; and to betray himself now would defeat his end and serve no good purpose. First, if possible, he would discover if the wine which had been thus pressed upon him had been tampered with. He was very sure it had. Tryon himself had brought that wine to the cottage--had brought it with an object; and that object was his own--Percy’s death! Good heavens! could his mother be knowingly concerned in this? He did not wish to believe it. Yet, if he should find the wine poisoned, how could he doubt it? Ha! A happy thought occurred to him. On the premises was a cat--it had been a little kitten when Hugh Maitland died--which the smugglers, when on shore and stopping at the cottage, had taught to lick up wine as it did milk, and more than once had poor puss been reduced to a state of utter inebriety in furnishing sport for the seamen. “I’ll tell you what I will do, mother,” said our hero, after a little thought. “Sometimes I am thirsty in the night. Suppose I take the bottle up to my chamber.” “Do so,” responded Margery, quickly. “And let me once more assure you, you’ll find it about the finest wine you ever tasted. At all events, I found it so. You will see a part of it has been consumed.” That was true, but it proved nothing. The young man, when he had arisen from the table, took the bottle and carried it up to his room, together with a goblet. Later he came down and took a look out of doors. There was a small shed in the rear of the cottage, with a cowhouse and sheepfold close by. In this shed he found the cat, which he took in his arms, and carried to the front door of the dwelling; and, as good fortune would have it, as he passed the windows of the sitting-room he saw his mother on her way to the kitchen, with the last of the supper dishes in her hands. To glide up to his own room, unseen, with the cat in his arms, was now easy; and it was accomplished without mishap. In his chamber, he put the cat on the floor, then gently turned the key in the lock of his door, and then reflected. He hesitated. If his mother had done this thing, did he wish to know it? The query was very soon answered. His own safety--his life perhaps, demanded it.