"Excuse my oversight. There's not a drop of wine left in this decanter," he said, after examining it.
"No matter," I returned. "I never drink wine."
"Tut, tut, man! you miss half your life. Now, I have a very choice collection of wines. Come, I'll give you a peep at my vaults."
He arose as he spoke and took up a candle. I had no interest whatever in wines, but I accompanied him.
Descending to the lower hallway, we passed through a long, dreary room, then down narrow stone steps into a capacious cellar, walled on every side with heavy masonry.
The place was damp and musty. Dust and cobwebs covered the casks and bottles that littered the whole end of the cellar. My host did not halt till we reached a heavy iron door fastened with a large, rusty padlock. I noticed a demoniacal expression on Parton's face, as he held the light close enough to the lock to examine it.
"No, it's never been meddled with," he remarked with a chuckle. "Ten years is a very long time for a man to live on wine–but he was very fond of wine—very—ha, ha!"
I looked at Parton in amazement, much puzzled as to the import of his strange words and manner.
He turned to me with a quick gesture.
"A thousand pardons!" he said. "You think my actions strange. But—shall I?—" a wild flash in his eyes. Yes, Mr. Hope, you shall have the story. I must tell it to some one. It's too good to keep. Ha, ha!"
"Take a seat," he continued, pushing a cask towards me, upon which I dropped, not certain that I was not in the presence of a madman.
Taking up a bottle, he brushed the cobwebs from it, then, breaking off the neck, passed it to me, saying:
"Take a pull. It's damp in this cellar, and this will take the chill out of your blood. This is an excellent wine—it was a favorite brand with Judson Pickford. Yes, sir; and Judson was a competent judge. Ha,ha!
His laugh made me shiver. It sounded like the exultation of a fiend. But I declined the wine, and Parton himself drained the bottle.
