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."
Mr. Pogson, who was in a rage, thumped the table with his hand.