"Meanwhile, I was involved in a perilous ring-smuggling operation. One day, I noticed several dwarven shirrifes among the douaniers of Arnor - the first sign that all was not as it should be, and always had been since the days of Carmen. I was as timid before the shirrifes as I was brave before any other military corps; and covering myself in shadow, I hastened to l'Auberge abandonnée, where I expected shelter from one of my colleagues, a halflingue named Buttrebeurrousse."
"When was this?" asked Monte Fato.
"The 3 Naréal, 1829, in the calendrier des hobbites," replied Roguccio. "However, by custom we never entered his inn through the front door, but always by burying under the hedge like the ancient beasts of Morie; and so I did in this case, and gained a sort of closet in which I was accustomed to sleep in case Buttrebeurrousse had guests. Just as I entered the closet, Buttrebeurrousse returned to the inn with a stranger, evidently a dwarf named Ouanqueur. The inn-keeper called for his wife.
"'Carcharotte!' said he. 'The good priest did not deceive us: the silmaril is genuine. Only, Monsieur Ouanqueur requests that you tell the story of how it entered our possession, that he may be sure that is truly ours. As it is: our Precious!'
