And Phillida rose submissively, with unreal thanks which could not conceal her recognition of the impromptu pretext for getting rid of her; her uncle called a taxicab, and with harsh hilarity turned her off the premises in the frock she had been wearing all day. “And now,” said he, returning with a scowl, “what the devil were you two talking about while my back was turned?” “Yesterday,” replied Pocket, more than ready for him, though his heart beat fast. “What about yesterday?” “Our scuffle in the other room.” “Is that all?” “No—I found out something; she didn’t tell me.” “What did you find out?” “That you let her think me mad!” cried Pocket, in monstrous earnest. He might have laughed at himself, could he have seen his own reproachful face. But he could have killed Baumgartner for laughing at him; it did not occur to him that the laugh was partly one of pure relief. “Why, my young fellow, how else can I account for you?” “You said she would think I was a patient.” “Exactly! A mental case.” “You had no business to make me out mad,” persisted Pocket, with dogged valour. “Pardon me! I had all the business in the world; and I beg that you’ll continue to foster the illusion as thoroughly as you did yesterday when I was out. It’s no good shaking your head at me; listen to reason,” continued Baumgartner, with an adroit change of tone. “And try, my good young fellow, do try to think of somebody besides yourself; have some consideration for my niece, if you have none for me.” Pocket was mystified, but still more incensed; for he felt himself being again put gently but clearly in the wrong. “And I should like to know,” he cried, “what good it does her to think she’s associating with a lunatic?” “She would probably prefer the idea to that of a murderer,” was the suave reply. “I speak only of ideas; otherwise I should not make use of such an expression, even in jest. It’s as ugly as it’s ridiculous in your case. Yet you heard for yourself that others are applying the horrid term in all sobriety.” “I heard more than that,” returned Pocket. “They’ve arrested somebody!” “I thought I told you there was no truth in that?” But Baumgartner had winced for once, and the boy had seen it, and his retort was a precocious inspiration. “That was only to avoid a scene at table, Dr. Baumgartner!” “Well, my young fellow,” said the doctor, after one of his wise pauses, “and what if it was?” “I can’t sit here and let an innocent man lie in prison.” “He won’t lie long.” “It’s absolutely wicked to let them keep him at all.” “Nor will they, longer than another hour or two.” “Well, if they do, you know what I shall do!”