Part 20 (1/2)

”It's no use asking me, Mr. Upton.”

”But I don't understand the question.”

”Is that true?”

”No,” he muttered; ”it isn't.”

She was leaning over to him; he felt it, without looking up.

”Mr. Upton,” she said, speaking quickly in the undertone they were both instinctively adopting, ”you know now what I thought about you at first.

I won't say what made me; but that was what I thought, but could hardly believe, and never will again. It makes it all the more a mystery, your being here. I can't ask my uncle-he tells me nothing-but there's something I can and must ask you.”

Pocket hung his head. He knew what was coming. It came.

”My uncle brought you here, Mr. Upton, on the very morning that thing happened they were calling out about to-day. In the Park. It is to the Park he goes so often in the early morning with his camera! How can I say what I want to say? But, if you think, you will see that everything points to it; especially the way he ran out for that paper-and hid the truth when he came in!”

Pocket looked up at last.

”I know the truth.”

”About the arrest?”

”Yes; it was quite obvious, and he admitted it when you'd gone.”

”Why not before?”

”I couldn't tax him about it in front of you,” he muttered, looking up and down quickly, unable to face her fierce excitement.

”Do tell me what it is you both know about this dreadful case!”

”I can't,” the boy said hoa.r.s.ely; ”don't ask me.”

”Then you know who did it. I can see you do.”

There was a new anguish even in her whisper; he could hear what she thought.

”It was n.o.body you care about,” he mumbled, hoa.r.s.er than before, and his head lower.

”You don't mean--”

She stopped aghast.

”I can't say another word-and you won't say another to me!” he added, a bitter break in his m.u.f.fled voice. He longed to tell her it had been an accident, to tell her all; but he had given his word to Baumgartner not to confide in her, and he did not think that he had broken it yet.

”You don't know me,” she whispered, and for a moment her hand lay warm in his; ”trust me! I'm your friend in spite of all you've said-or done!”

Dr. Baumgartner might have been ten minutes getting rid of the intruder; before that he had been first amazed and then relieved to hear the piano in the drawing-room; and that was all his anxious ear had heard of either boy or girl during his absence. Yet the boy was not standing over the piano, as he might have been, for Phillida was trying to recall one of the concert songs he said his sister sang. Pocket, however, was staring out into the garden with a troubled face, which he turned abruptly, aggressively, and yet apprehensively to meet the doctor's.

But the doctor no longer looked suspiciously from him to Phillida, but stood beaming on them both, and rubbing his hands as though he had done something very clever indeed.