‘O yes; he takes out a nail and pushes something in—but that’s telling. Could you do it? I have seen papa do it often, and he did not mind me; but he doesn’t like anybody else to see him, for he was angry one day when nurse Susan came in without knocking just as he was going to open it.’ Tuppit was already busy examining the brass screws. He found one the notch of which indicated that it was more frequently used than the others. A penknife served his purpose; he took out the screw, thrust a thin pencil into the hole; pressed it, and the desk opened. ‘Oh, how clever!—That was just the way papa used to do it, only he had a brass thing for sticking into the hole,’ said the child admiringly. ‘I’ve tried to do it.’ There was nothing in the desk; and Tuppit, with a long-drawn breath of relief, closed it, replacing the screw as before. But he had kept on chattering to the child all the time, and muttering parenthetically observations to himself. ‘You must show your papa that you know how it is done, Ada.... Nothing in it may tell for or against him.... And he will think it so funny that we should find it out.... It’s a sign that he knows the game is up and is making ready to bolt.... But you must tell him that it was only a little bit of Tuppit’s conjuring, and that he was glad to find nothing.’ Ada drew back towards the door, a little frightened by the change in his manner, which betrayed excitement in spite of his self-control. ‘I think—I am beginning to be afraid of you now. You are not like the good magician any more.’ ‘That’s true, Ada,’ he said humbly, as he wiped his brow with that wonderful silk handkerchief which was of so much use to him in his professional exploits. Cold as the weather was, he seemed to be perspiring. ‘But you know the change is only one of my tricks. Now, I will come back. Hey, Presto, change.... There, am I not smiling the same as before?’ ‘No; you are not. You are looking ugly.’ ‘Ah, let me hide my head.’ He bent down with a would-be comical manner of astonishment and chagrin. The child laughed in a hesitating way, as if not quite reassured that it was all fun. As he stooped, his eye fell on a waste-paper basket under the table. He snatched it out, and found in it a ball of blotting-paper which had been crumpled into that shape by an impatient hand. This he smoothed out on the table and then held up so that the sunbeam fell full upon it. ‘This is the thing. Thank heaven, it is in my hands.’ He carefully folded the paper and put it in his pocket. Then with real heartiness he turned to the wondering child. ‘Now, Ada, I can laugh again; and if there was time enough, I would show you some beautiful things. Look here, for instance. Open your hand; I place that penny in it.—Close your hand. You are sure you have the penny?’ ‘Quite sure.’ ‘Presto, change. The penny is gone.’ ‘No, it isn’t!’ cried the child, laughing, and opening her hand, displayed the penny lying on the palm.