’Is it, Messer Topo,’ said he, ’that you desire to honour me with the reversion of a former friendship? What! You flip your whiskers in protest? No friend, you imply, who could educate your palate to cooked meats, and then betray it, returning you to old husks? Has he deserted you, then? Alas, Messer! We who frequent these cellars are not masters of our exits and our entrances. How passed he from your ken, that same unknown? Feet-first? Face-first? Tell me, and I’ll answer for his faith or faithlessness.’ The visitor showed some signs of impatience. ’What!’ cried Carlo. ’My grace is overlong? Shall we fall to? Yet, soft. Fain would I know first the value of this proffered love, which, to my base mind, seems to smack a little of the cupboard.’ His hand went into the dish. Messer Topo ceased from preening his moustache, and stiffened expectant, his paws erect. ’Ha-ha!’ cried Carlo. ’You are there, are you? O, Messer Topo, Messer Topo! Even prisoners, I find, possess their parasites.’ He held out a morsel of meat. The big rat took it confidently in his paws; tested, and approved it; sat up for more. ’What manners!’ admired Carlo. ’Art the very pink of Topos. Come, then; we’ll dine together.’ Messer Topo acquitted himself with perfect correctness. When satisfied, he sat down and cleaned himself. Carlo ventured to scratch his head. He paused, to submit politely to the attention—which, though undesired, he accepted on its merits—then, the hand being withdrawn, waited a moment for courtesy’s sake, and returned to his scouring. In the midst, the key grated in the door, and like a flash he was gone. ’Ehi!’ pondered Carlo; ’it is very evident he has been trained to shy at authority.’ It seemed so, indeed, and that authority knew nothing of him. Otherwise, probably, authority would have resented his interference with its theories of solitary confinement to the extent of trapping and killing him. The prisoner saw no more of his little sedate visitor that evening; but, with night and sleep, the voice again took up the tale of his haunting; and this time, somehow, to his dreaming senses, Messer Topo seemed to be the medium of its piteous conveyance to him. Once more he woke, and slept, and woke again; and always to hear the faint music gaining or losing body in opposite ratio with his consciousness. He was troubled and perplexed; awake by dawn, and harking for confirmation of his dreams. But daylight plugged his hearing. He had expected Messer Topo to breakfast. He did not come. He called—and there he was. They exchanged confidences and discussed biscuits. The key grated, and Messer Topo was gone.