"Stealing Mr. Zubov’s oldest whiskey," said Ossian, behind her, "which I’d myself secured against oxidation, with an inert gas." Netherton quite distinctly heard Ossian’s knuckles crack. "A pint of plain’s your only man, Mr. Netherton. I’ve told you that, haven’t I?" This was indeed something the Irishman sometimes said, though at the moment Netherton was entirely unclear as to what it might mean.