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 starting you,” he apologised. “I just came in to say goodbye.” And he held out a hand which she never seemed to see. “To say goodbye!” she gasped. “Yes, I’ve got to go. I’m afraid the doctor’s out?” “Yes, he is. Won’t you wait?” “I’m afraid I can’t.” She was shrinking from him, shrinking round towards the door. He stood aside, to let her bolt if that was her desire. And then she in turn took her stand, back to the door. “He’ll be very sorry to miss you,” she said more firmly, and with a smile. “And I’m very sorry to miss him,” said Pocket, unconscientiously enough for anybody. “He’s been most awfully good to me, and I wish you’d tell him how grateful I am.” “I’m afraid he won’t believe me,” the girl said dryly, “if he finds you gone.” “I must go—really I must. I shall get into an awful row as it is. Do you mind giving him one other message?” “As many as you like.” “Well, you might tell him from me that I’ll give myself away, but I’ll never give him! He’ll know what I mean.” “Is that all?” She was keeping him very cleverly, putting in her word always at the last moment, and again refusing to see his hand; but again it was the boy who helped to waste his own golden opportunity, this time through an indefensible bit of boyish braggadocio. “No; you may tell the doctor that if he wanted to detain me he went the worst way about it by locking me into my room!”