"I met somebody of that name during last vacation, so I suppose it must have been the same," he answered, with pretended indifference; "but he wasn't wearing a beard. It's a good disguise. What's he afraid of?"
"Well, he's obliged to. I'm telling you this as a secret, and I know I can trust you not to repeat it. My father's an agent of one of the foreign Governments, and he's obliged to put on a disguise sometimes to get information."
"But what information does he want to get that makes him wear disguises?"
"I never could quite make out, but I know it's to do with secret service. He once told me that every Government has secret service. That's all I ever knew."
He seemed to have an uneasy suspicion that his father's profession was not a very honourable one, for his head sunk to his breast.
"Is your father a friend of the master's—Mr. Weevil, I mean?"
"Well, yes—more than a friend; but it's another secret I don't want to get about the school. Mr. Weevil would be very angry if it did, so you must promise me not to repeat it."
And Paul, scarcely knowing all his promise meant, promised him. Then the boy leant very close to him and whispered: "Mr. Weevil's my uncle."
This information was almost as startling and unexpected as the information that had preceded it. As it fell from Hibbert's lips, Paul almost feared that the door would open and Mr. Weevil would walk in, just as he had walked in before.
"Your uncle!" he repeated.