“Enough!” came a shout from the table next to theirs. “You bicker like a pair of divinity scholars. I would hear the rest of the tale and judge for myself!”

“Aye, the tale!” came another shout from behind Addison, and the chorus was picked up by all of those in the tavern who were in earshot of the two men.

“Alright! Alright!” Addison banged his ale mug on the table.

When a reasonable silence fell on the room, he drew breath to speak. “Where had I gotten to?”

“ ‘The blacksmith was working late on a moonless night when a man walked in . . . ,’ ” a helpful listener prompted.

“Aye, aye, just so. And full old he was-with a beard, white as a cloud, down to his waist, and a red-”

“You described him already!” came a cry from another table.

“And a red robe!” Addison Fletcher shouted. “A red robe that was bordered with all manner of delicate and intricate designs!

Alright? ”

There was chuckling among the crowd.

“Anyhow,” Addison continued, quieter. “This old gent comes up to the blacksmith-Sam, the blacksmith’s name is-and bids him good evening. Sam bids him likewise and asks what service he can give the old man. The old man without saying a word hands him a bar of gold this big.” Addison held his hands apart.

“‘What’s this?’ asks Sam.

“‘I need you to make a shoe from this strip of gold that would fit a warhorse,’ says the stranger, and gives him the size, which is large enough for a destrier. The blacksmith sets to work and-it being no especially hard task to shape gold-he soon has the shoe made. He hands it over to the old man along with the parts of the gold bar that he hasn’t used. He does this thinking that he’ll get some of the gold in return and more of it if he’s honest. For in working with the stuff, he’s judged it to be proof pure.

“But the gent merely puts the gold scraps in a pouch he carries on his belt and asks the smith to pick up his shoeing tools and follow him.