Aron, however, seemed to be thinking of something totally apart. He said again, and with the same wonderment—
"You hold Blackladies in trust for Mr. Jervas?"
"That is so," said I, "but it need not keep us out of bed." And I walked into the passage.
Aron lifted up the lamp and very politely led the way to my door. There he stopped and came into the room with me.
"Sir," said he, setting down the lamp, "you will pardon me one more question?"
"It is another privilege of the old servant," I answered with a yawn.
"You were poor when Mr. Ashlock came to you in Paris?"
"Penniless," said I, and I began kicking off my boots lazily.
"Then God knows," he cried, "I would you were Sir John Rookley's son;" and with that he plumped down on his knees and drew off my boots. And this time I suffered him to do it.
I had not done with him, however, even for that night. For an hour or so later, when I was asleep in bed, some one shook me by the shoulder. I looked with blinking eyes at the flame of a candle held an inch from my nose. Behind the candle was Aron, with a coat buttoned up to his chin as though he had thrown it over his nightgear.