"I did. I wrote that myself. . . . You wish me to say will I or will I not let my son Bennett go for a parson. Have you a mind for irony? There's irony in this. In the first place I have no money. In the second I cannot say 'Yes' or 'No' to that or any other thing in this house. You must see the boy's mother. I'll send you to her with a note. . . . What are you staring at, man? Have you never seen a prisoner before? When you live in a prison you comply with the regulations. . . . Do you see that scar on my forehead? My eldest son did that when he was a boy of twelve. He's a man now and speaks to me once a month. He comes in here and stands by the door, and he says 'How are you, father?' And I say 'I'm very well,' and then he goes away. He's a man now, and, let me tell you, he has a bath every morning." He had worked himself up to a great state of excitement, and Francis sat gaping at him like a child at a theatre. Old Lawrie went to the door and bawled: "Tibby!" The gaunt old Scotswoman came in, treading noiselessly, like a ghost, and stood (thought Francis) like a gaoleress waiting orders from the chieftain of a Border clan. Old Lawrie sat at table and wrote a note on a very dirty piece of paper, folded it up into a cocked hat, and with great care wrote on it in a neat, impersonal copperplate hand, "Mrs. James Lawrie." He gave it to Tibby and commanded her to take it and Mr. Folyat to Mrs. Lawrie in the drawing-room. He shook Francis warmly by the hand, thanked him for listening to him so patiently and bowed with extraordinary dignity. Francis followed Tibby, feeling, as he said afterwards, like a captive in a strange land. It was very dark in the passage, and, like the night in Jorrocks, it smelled of cheese. At the drawing-room door Tibby whispered to him: "Will you wait? She may be asleep." She pushed the door open stealthily and two cats darted out, and, on seeing Francis, rushed away, one upstairs, the other to the end of the passage, and they both sat rumbling like a kettle on the boil. Tibby moved noiselessly into the room, then turned: "She's no asleep. Ye may come in." Francis followed her. Tibby planted herself in front of Mrs. Folyat, gave her the note with this: "From the master." (If it had been from the Emperor of Russia she could not have put more reverence into her voice.) "From the master. This is the gentleman." With that she materialised out of her ghostliness and stalked out of the room, and Francis, on whom the humour of the whole household was beginning to dawn, found himself inventing her report to the Master: "The prisoner has been boiled in oil, but made no confession."