tratagem. He could understand it, after all; the motive was not
malevolent; it was to relieve his mind and keep him quiet. The plan had
succeeded perfectly, and nobody was really any the worse off. His people
would have known he was alive and well on the Friday; but that was all,
and they had no reason yet to assume his death. No; even Pocket came to
see that his letter had been more of a relief to write than it could have
been to read; that, indeed, it could only have aggravated the anxiety and
suspense at home. Yet there was in him some fibre which the deliberate
deception had fretted and frayed beyond reason or forgiveness. He saw all
there was to be said about it; he could imagine Baumgartner himself
putting the case with irresistible logic, with characteristic
plausibility, and all the mesmeric wisdom of a benevolent serpent; but for
once, the boy felt, he would not be taken in. It was not coming to that,
however, for he had quite decided not to betray his knowledge of the
fraud--if only he had not already done so!

His fears on that score were largely allayed by Baumgartner's manner when
at length he returned with another tray; for nothing could have been more
considerate and sympathetic, and even fatherly, than the doctor's
behaviour then. Pocket had never touched his tea; he was very gently
chidden for that. Obstinately he declared he did not want any supper
either: it was true he did not want to want any, or another bite of that
man's bread, but he was sorry as soon as the words were out. It was
against his reasoned policy to show temper, and he was beginning to feel
very hungry besides. The doctor said, "You'll think better of that, my
young fellow," which turned a mere remark into more than half an absolute
resolution. The second tray was set with a lighted candle on a chair by
the bedside. The boy eyed it wistfully with set teeth, and Baumgartner
eyed the boy.

"Is there anything you could fancy, my young fellow?"

"Nothing to eat."

"Is there any book?"

"Yes," said Pocket, without a moment's premeditation. "There's the book I
was reading yesterday."

"What was that?"

"Some Frenchman on hallucinations."

"So you were reading that book!" remarked the doctor, with detestable
aplomb. "I wondered who had taken it down. It is a poor book. I have
destroyed it."

"I'm sorry," said Pocket, and tried to look it rather than revolted.

"I am not," rejoined Baumgartner. "Even if it were a