Pocket saw himself a desperate character just then, and one not incapable of desperate action had the climax only come at once. But he had more than an hour of it alone at his post; he had a whole hot forenoon of unmitigated suspense, of sickening alarms from tradesmen’s carts, boys whistling past the house as though they were not in a wicked world at all, and then a piano-organ that redoubled his watchfulness, and spoilt some tunes for him for ever. Once he did hear shambling feet on the very steps outside. Once was quite enough, though it was but an advertisement for cast-off clothing (and false teeth) that came fluttering through the letter-box. Pocket was left in such a state that he would not have backed himself to hit the door from the stairs; and he put the chain on it, thinking to interview the doctor over that, in the manner of old Miss Harbottle. So it happened that the first significant sound was entirely lost upon him, because he was listening for one so much nearer at hand, until Phillida ran downstairs and almost over him where he sat. He got up to make way stiffly, but a glance assured him that the quarrel was over on her side. The great eyes were fixed appealingly upon him, but with a distressing look which he had done nothing to provoke. Not before then was he aware of another duet between newsboys coming nearer and nearer, and shouting each other down as they came. “You hear that?” she whispered, as if not to drown a note. “I do now.” “Do you hear what it is?” Pocket listened, and caught a word he was not likely to miss. “Something fresh about the murder,” said he grimly. “No; it’s another one,” she shuddered. “Can’t you hear? ‘Another awful murder!’ Now they’re saying something else.” “It is something about the Park.” Pocket stuck to his idea. “And something else about some ‘well-known’—I can’t hear what!” “No more can I.” “I’ll open the door.” She opened it on the chain as he had left it. That did not help them. The shouting had passed the end of their quiet road. It was dying away again in the distance. “I must go out and get one,” said Phillida. “Some well-known man!” “You’re not thinking of the doctor, surely?” “I don’t know! I can’t think where he is.” “But you’re worse than I am, if you jump to that!” said Pocket, smiling to reassure her. He did not smile when she had run out as she was; he had shut the door after her, and he was waiting to open it in a fever of impatience.