‘I could give him no hopeful answer. “I see,” he said, “there has been no relenting. Homer Sivewright is made of iron. Come, child, all I want is a shelter. Am I to have it here or in the workhouse, or, in fault of that, a gaol? If I sleep in the street another night I shall be in for a rheumatic fever. I’ve had all manner of aches and pains in my bones for some days past.” “You shall not sleep in the streets,” I said, “while I have power to give you shelter.” I thought of all those empty rooms on the top floor. I had the key of the staircase always in my own charge, and thought it would be easy enough to keep any one up there for weeks, and months even, without my grandfather or the Winchers ever knowing anything about it. Or if the worst came to the worst, I thought I might venture to trust the Winchers with the secret. “Have you made up your mind?” asked my father impatiently. “Yes, papa,” I said—and the old name came back so naturally—“I have made up my mind.” I told him he must wait a little, till Mr. and Mrs. Wincher were safely out of the way, and then I would take him into the house; unless he would make up his mind to trust the Winchers with his secret. “I will trust not a living creature but yourself,” he said; “and if you tell any one a word about me, I shall have done with you for ever. I come back to my father’s house as an outcast and a reprobate. Fathers don’t kill their fatted calves nowadays for prodigal sons. I want no one’s help, I want no one’s pity but yours, Lucille, for I believe you are the only creature in this world who loves me.” This touched me to the heart. What could I refuse him after that? I told him to wait in the summer-house till all was safe, and that I would come for him as soon as I could venture to do so. I went in and went straight up-stairs to the attic floor, where I dragged that old bedstead into the most comfortable room, and carried up blankets from down-stairs. I lighted a fire, for the room felt damp, and made all as decent as I could. By the time I had done this, the Winchers had gone to bed; and I unbolted the door of the brewery as quietly as I could—but it is a long way from the room where they used to sleep, as you know, so there was very little fear of their hearing me—and went to the summer-house to fetch my father. We crept slowly past the Winchers’ room and up the stairs, for I was afraid of grandpapa’s quick ear, even at that hour. When I showed my father the room I had chosen for him, he objected to it, and asked to see the other rooms on this floor, which I had told him were entirely unoccupied. He selected the room at the north end of the house.’ ‘Of course,’ thought Lucius; ‘he had been informed about the secret staircase!’