I started. A glance at the top one had been sufficient. I recognized the photographs George had kept hidden in his room, or others like them. I looked at my father watching me, not angrily, but in a kind of hopeless way; I looked into his gray, still face while he went on speaking. “They were found in your bedroom hidden under the floor. Uncle George says that George knows nothing about them, and, that being the case, he felt it his duty to tell me. He does not mention your name. I don’t know what to do. I have been trying to think.” He looked at the wretched things, as they lay there, with a kind of horror. I sat silent for a moment. “They’re not mine,” I then said. “I have nothing to do with them.” A gleam of relief came into his face, but it faded quickly. “You never saw them before?” I lifted the top one, but immediately put it back again. “I don’t know whether I saw them before or not,” I answered. “If I didn’t see these particular ones I saw others like them.” My father winced. “But they never belonged to me. Even if I had wanted them I wouldn’t have known where to get them.” “Did you know of this hiding place?” “Yes.” “And of what was there?” “Yes.” “Only you and George occupied that room.” “And George says they aren’t his.” I looked towards the window. My father hesitated. Then he said solemnly, “Will you give me your word of honour, Peter, that you had nothing to do with their being there?” “I had nothing to do with it.” I answered quietly. “I knew they were there, because George showed them to me. If he was here he would not say they were mine. I knew what he was like from the first day I went there. Those things were there then, and on the very first night he wanted to show them to me, but he was frightened to. I did not see them till a long time afterwards. I would never have seen them at all, if you had let me leave when I first wrote to ask you to.” “You gave me no reason,” said my father, sadly. “Do you think I should have allowed you to stay an hour in the place if I had known?” “You might have guessed there was _some_ reason. And at the time I couldn’t give any――I didn’t know myself.” “Had that anything to do with your not wanting to go back there after Christmas?” “In a way――more or less,” I answered. “Not exactly that, but other things――――” My father sighed. He tore the photographs in two, and placed them in the empty grate, where he set fire to them. It was like an act of purification, and when it was concluded he turned round and said gloomily, “I’m sorry if I misjudged you. I accept your word.”