She was, as usual, in the bar, standing very erect.

She had taken up her knitting, and her needles clicked and glittered busily.
"Matt Peke left a bottle of his herb wine for you," she said.

"There it is." She indicated by a jerk of her head a flat oblong quart flask, neatly corked and tied with string, which lay on the counter.

It was of a conveniently portable shape, and Helmsley slipped it into one of his coat pockets with ease.
"Shall you be seeing Peke soon again, Miss Tranter ?" he asked.
"I don't know.

Maybe so, and maybe not.