He also, with many thanks, a smile and a bow, declined. "My quarters are quite out of reach of the inhabited part of the house--not very far from two hundred feet from this spot, by Jove! right in the rear. You must really come to me there some night; you'll be amused at my deal furniture and rustic barbarism; we often make a party there and smoke for half an hour." So, as they were not to be persuaded, the Baronet hospitably accompanied them to their rooms, at the common dressing-room door of which stood little Jacque Duval with his thin, bronzed face, candle in hand, bowing, to receive his master. CHAPTER XV. M. Varbarriere converses with his Nephew. Here then Sir Jekyl bid them good-night, and descended the great staircase, and navigated the long line of passage to the back stairs leading up to his own homely apartment. The elder man nodded to Jacque, and moved the tips of his fingers towards the door--a silent intimation which the adroit valet perfectly understood; so, with a cheerful bow, he withdrew. There was a gay little spluttering fire in the grate, which the sharpness of the night made very pleasant. The clumsy door was shut, and the room had an air of comfortable secrecy which invited a talk. It was not to come, however, without preparation. He drew a chair before the fire, and sat down solemnly, taking a gigantic cigar from his case, and moistening it diligently between his lips before lighting it. Then he pointed to a chair beside the hearth, and presented his cigar-case to his young companion, who being well versed in his elder's ways, helped himself, and having, like him, foreign notions about smoking, had of course no remorse about a cigar or two in their present quarters. Up the chimney chiefly whisked the narcotic smoke. Over the ponderous features and knotted forehead of the sage flushed the uncertain light of the fire, revealing all the crows' feet--all the lines which years, thought, passion, or suffering had traced on that large, sombre, and somewhat cadaverous countenance, reversing oddly some of its shadows, and glittering with a snakelike brightness on the eyes, which now gazed grimly into the bars under their heavy brows. The large and rather flat foot, shining in French leather, of the portly gentleman in the ample black velvet waistcoat, rested on the fender, and he spoke not a word until his cigar was fairly smoked out and the stump of it in the fire. Abruptly he began, without altering his pose or the direction of his gaze. "You need not make yourself more friendly with any person here than is absolutely necessary." He was speaking French, and in a low tone that sounded like the boom of a distant bell. Young Strangways bowed acquiescence. "Be on your guard with Sir Jekyl Marlowe. Tell him _nothing_. Don't let him be kind to you. He will have no kind motive in being so. Fence with his questions--don't answer them. Remember he is an artful man without any scruple. I know him and all about him."