It had been honoured with a place beside a rack of special negatives; at least, there were other racks, in the other lockers, not locked up like that; and there was no other treasure that Pocket could see. He had his hand on his own treasure, was in the act of taking it, trembling a little, but more elated, as he stood in a ruby flood only partially diluted by the broken window behind the blind. At that moment there came such a thunder of knuckles on the door beside him that the revolver caught in the rack of negatives, and brought the whole lot crashing about his toes. CHAPTER XVII. ON THE TRACK OF THE TRUTH The unseen knuckles renewed their assault upon the dark-room door; and Pocket wavered between its Yale lock, which opened on this side with a mere twist of the handle, and the broken red window behind the drawn red blind. Escape that way was easy enough; and if ever one could take the streets in pyjamas and overcoat, with the rest of one’s clothes in a bundle under one’s arm, it was before six o’clock in the morning. But it was not a course that vanity encouraged in an excited schoolboy with romantic instincts and a revolver which he perceived at a glance to be still loaded in most of its chambers. Pocket was not one of nature’s heroes, but he had an overwhelming desire to behave like one, and time to feel how he should despise himself all his life if he bolted by the window instead of opening the door. So he did open it, trembling but determined. And there stood Phillida in her dressing-gown, her dark hair tumbling over her shoulders. “It’s you!” she cried, taking the exclamation out of his mouth. “Yes,” he said, with a gust of relief; “did you think it was thieves?” “Isn’t it?” she demanded, pointing to the broken window visible through the blind. Then she saw his revolver, and drew back an inch. “He took this from me,” said Pocket. “I had a right to it. Take it if you will!” And he offered it, in the best romantic manner, by the barrel. But Phillida was too angry to look at revolvers. “You had no business to break in to get it,” she told him, with considerable severity. “I didn’t! I broke in for my clothes; he took them, too, this morning before he went out. They’re what I broke in for, and I’d a perfect right; you know I had! And while I’m about it I thought I might as well have this thing too. I knew it was in here somewhere. It was in there. And I’m glad I got it, and so should you be, because you and I are in the house of one of the greatest villains alive!” The words tumbled over each other with quite hereditary heat. They were all out in a few seconds, and the boy left panting with his indignation, the girl’s eyes flashing hers. “I begin to think my uncle was right,” said she. “This is the act of what he said you were, if anything could be.” “He lied to you, and he’s been lying to me!” “He may have been justified.”