Steerpike repeated his question, ‘Whose are they?’ he said.

‘Whose what?’ said Flay, stopping on the stairs and turning round. ‘Still here are you? Still following me?’

‘You suggested that I should,’ said Steerpike.

‘Ch! Ch!’ said Flay, ‘what d’you want, Swelter’s boy?’

‘Nauseating Swelter,’ said Steerpike between his teeth but with one eye on Mr Flay, ‘vile Swelter.’

There was a pause during which Steerpike tapped the iron banisters with his thumb-nail.

‘Name?’ said Mr Flay.

‘My name?’ asked Steerpike.

‘Your name, yes, your name, I know what my name is.’ Mr Flay put a knuckly hand on the banisters preparatory to mounting the stairs again, but waited, frowning over his shoulder, for the reply.

‘Steerpike sir,’ said the boy.

‘Queerpike, eh? eh?’ said Flay.

‘No, Steerpike.’

‘What?’

‘Steerpike. Steerpike.’

‘What for?’ said Flay.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘What for, eh? Two Squeertikes, two of you. Twice over. What for? One’s enough for a Swelter’s boy.’

The youth felt it would be useless to clear up the problem of his name. He concentrated his dark eyes on the gawky figure above him for a few moments and shrugged his shoulders imperceptibly. Then he spoke again, showing no sign of irritation.

‘Whose cats were those, sir? May I ask?’

‘Cats?’ said Flay, ‘who said cats?’

‘The white cats,’ said Steerpike. ‘All the white cats in the Cat room. Who do they belong to?’

Mr Flay held up a finger. ‘My Lady’s,’ he said. His hard voice seemed a part of this cold narrow stairway of stone and iron. ‘They belong to my Lady. Lady’s white cats they are. Swelter’s boy. All hers.’

Steerpike pricked his ears up, ‘Where does she live?’ he said. ‘Are we close to where she lives?’

For answer Mr Flay shot his head forward out of his collar and croaked, ‘Silence! you kitchen thing. Hold your tongue you greasy fork. Talk too much,’ and he straddled up the stairs, passing two landings in his ascent, and then at the third he turned sharply to his left and entered an octagonal apartment where full-length portraits in huge dusty gold frames stared from seven of the eight walls. Steerpike followed him in.

Mr Flay had been longer away from his lordship than he had intended or thought right and it was on his mind that the earl might be needing him. Directly he entered the octagonal room he approached one of the portraits at the far end and pushing the suspended frame a little to one side, revealed a small round hole in the panelling the size of a farthing. He placed his eye to this hole and Steerpike watched the wrinkles of his parchment-coloured skin gather below the protruding bone at the base of the skull, for Mr Flay both had to stoop and then to raise his head in order to apply his eye at the necessary angle. What Mr Flay saw was what he had expected to see.