"
Hilda came in, looking so happy I hardly recognized her. I remember
feeling how strange it was that anybody could be happy just then.
"_I_ know," she said. "Of course! Doesn't he always go off to the
inn and play bowls at this time?"
"Why, of course," said Harold. "So he does."
And he asked Ann to play something on the piano. And pretty soon we had
settled down to a regular jolly musical evening. Ann must have played a
matter of two or three thousand tunes, when Harold got up.
"By the way," he said. "I suppose he did what I told him about the
picture before he went out. Let's go and see."
"Oh, Harold, what does it matter?" asked Hilda.
"Don't be silly, Harold," said Ann.
I would have said the same thing, only I couldn't say anything.
Harold wasn't to be stopped. He led the way out of the room and
upstairs, and we all trailed after him. We had just reached the top
floor, when Hilda stopped, and said "Hark!"
It was a voice.
"Hi!" it said. "Hi!"
Harold legged it to the door of the studio. "Ponsonby?"
From within came the voice again, and I have never heard anything to
touch the combined pathos, dignity and indignation it managed to
condense into two words.
"Yes, sir?"
"What on earth are you doing in there?"
"I came here, sir, in accordance with your instructions on the
telephone, and----"
Harold rattled the door.
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