He took off his old hat and threw it on the bed, and ran his fingers through his hair perplexedly. "My son," said he at last, "if you were just a common boy I should make you go on your bended knees and lift up your hand and swear that you would not reveal to a living soul the mysteries which these papers contain, and then I should send you to dwell for ever among the tripe-plates. But I see before me a gentleman, a scholar and an artist and I will not submit him to such an indignity." He put his hand on my head and looked at me in kind irony. "I will never tell no one, Master," I promised. "Anyone," he corrected. "Anyone, Master," I repeated meekly. "You will wipe it all out of your memory." I was habitually truthful with Paragot, because he never gave me cause to lie. "I can't, Master," said I, thinking of my dreams of Joanna. The seriousness of my tone amused him. "What has made such an indelible impression on your mind?" "I can't forget----" I blurted out, moved both by reluctance to yield over my dreams of Joanna and by a desire to show off my familiarity with French, "I can't forget about _ces petits pieds si adorés_." The smile died from his face, which assumed a queer, scared expression. He went to the window and stood there so long, that I, in my turn grew scared. I realised dimly what I had done, and I could have bitten my tongue out. I drew near him. "Master," said I timidly. He did not seem to hear; presently he picked up his hat from the bed and walked out without taking any notice of me. We did not refer to the papers again until long afterwards, and though they lay unguarded as before in the old stocking, never till this present day have I set my eyes on them. CHAPTER IV ONE May morning a year after my surprising of Paragot's secret, I awoke later than usual, the three-and-sixpenny clock on the mantelpiece marking eleven, and huddling on my clothes in alarm I left the foul smelling Club room, and ran upstairs to arouse my master. To my astonishment he was not alone. A stout florid man, wearing a white waistcoat which bellied out like the sail of a racing yacht, a frock coat and general resplendency of garb, stood planted in the middle of the room, while Paragot still in nightshirt but trousered, sat swinging his leg on a corner of the deal table. I noticed the fiddle which Paragot had evidently been playing before his visitor's arrival, lying on the disordered bed. "Who the devil is this?" cried the fat man angrily. "This is Mr. Asticot, my private secretary, who cooks my herrings and attends to my correspondence. Usually he cooks two, but if you will join us at breakfast Mr. Hogson----" "Pogson," bawled the fat man. "I beg your pardon," said my master sweetly. "If you will join us at breakfast he will cook three." "Damn your breakfast," said Mr. Pogson. "Only two then, Asticot. This gentleman has already breakfasted. You will forgive us for not treating you as a stranger."