st find out their mistake! It was exactly the same mood in
which he had scaled the upright palings in defiance of the policeman who
said he might not sleep in the Park.

The balcony window was open, the room within empty. It was obviously
Baumgartner's bedroom. There was a camp bedstead worthy of an old
campaigner, a large roll-top desk, and a waste-paper basket which argued
either a voluminous correspondence or imperfect domestic service; it would
have furnished scent for no short paper-chase. Otherwise the room was
tidy enough, and so eloquent of Baumgartner himself, in its uncompromising
severity, that Pocket breathed more freely on the landing. And in the
hall he felt absolutely safe, for he had gained it without the creaking of
a stair, and there on the pegs hung his hat, but neither the cloak nor the
weird wide-awake affected by his host.

Baumgartner out. That was a bit of luck; and it was just like Pocket to
lose a moment in taking advantage of it; but the truth was that he had
made an interesting discovery. It was in that house the piano was being
played. He heard it through the drawing-room door; he had heard it on the
balcony up above; it had never stopped once, so silent had he been. It
was that Phillida, with the large dark eyes, and she was playing something
that Lettice sometimes played, and very nearly, though naturally not
quite, as well. Pocket would have said that it was Mendelssohn, or
Chopin, "or something," for his love of music was greater than his
knowledge. But it was not exactly the music that detained him; he was
thinking more of the musician, who had shown him kindness, after all. It
would be only decent to thank her before he went, and the doctor himself
through his niece. If she knew he had been locked in, and he had to tell
her how he had made his escape and yet not a sound--well, she would not
think the less of him at all events, and so they would part for ever. Or
perhaps not for ever! The juvenile instinct for romance was not to be
stifled at such a stimulating moment. The girl would be sorry for him
when she knew all; she might know enough to be sorry for him as it was; in
any case it was the game to say goodbye.

The girl sprang from the music-stool in extraordinary excitement. Her
large eyes were larger than ever, as it were with fear, and yet they
blazed at the intruder. Pocket could not understand it, unless she
already knew the truth.

"I'm so sorry for starti