I said, "who told you about my great-grandmother's recipes?"
"Well," he fenced.
"Every time we've met for a week," I said—"and we've met pretty often— you've given me a broad hint or so about that little secret of mine."
"Well," he said, "now the cat's out of the bag, I'll admit, yes, it is so. I had it"
"From Pattison?"
"Indirectly," he said, which I believe was lying, "yes."
"Pattison," I said, "took that stuff at his own risk."
He pursed his mouth and bowed.
"My great-grandmother's recipes," I said, "are queer things to handle. My father was near making me promise"
"He didn't?"
"No. But he warned me. He himself used one—once."
"Ah! ... But do you think? Suppose—suppose there did happen to be one"
"The things are curious documents," I said. "Even the smell of 'em ... No!"
But after going so far Pyecraft was resolved I should go farther. I was always a little afraid if I tried his patience too much he would fall on me suddenly and smother me. I own I was weak. But I was also annoyed with Pyecraft. I had got to that state of feeling for him that disposed me to say, "Well, take the risk!" The little affair of Pattison to which I have alluded was a different matter altogether. What it was doesn't concern us now, but I knew, anyhow, that the particular recipe I used then was safe. The rest I didn't know so much about, and, on the whole, I was inclined to doubt their safety pretty completely.
